He took a minute to look around the lot to see what he could do. There was no one around, so he didn’t have to worry about startling an innocent bystander. The area had a few gang members who harassed local businesses or picked on the poor migrant workers occasionally if the dope trade was slow, but generally people didn’t frequent this part of Krome Avenue.
Tasker wasn’t sure how soundly asleep Jimmy was, but he’d work in stages and find out.
Daniel Wells had the old Ford Ranger loaded with stuff he might need later. He had just picked up all the scrap metal he had stored from the company he’d done work for a few months back. When he had seen the pile of sharp-edged cuttings, he’d known he could put them to good use. They’d loved him for hauling away the dangerous jagged metal pieces, none larger than his hand; the whole box of them hadn’t weighed more than fifty pounds. They had just kept sweeping them into the corner day after day, never giving any thought as to how to get rid of them.
Wells headed south on Krome Avenue from an old farm shed on one of his former employers’ land. They didn’t mind him leaving things inside the unused shed and liked the idea of a reliable person checking on the outlying acres of the tomato farm once in a while. The old Ford pickup backfired for no reason about every ten miles. Wells knew mechanical machinery pretty well and knew the fundamentals of car repair, but it seemed like this old truck was haunted. As long as it got him where he was headed and didn’t draw any attention, he didn’t care.
He knew he’d never hear anything more about the tussle he had had with the Nazis. At least three of them would have had to go to the hospital with gunshot wounds, unless they had some low-life ex-doctor that took care of things like that. It seemed like there was every type of professional available on the black market to handle services that people outside the law might need. Wells decided no matter what, they wouldn’t want people to know one man had come into their clubhouse and taken a truck without getting a scratch.
He was headed to his secret box over by the power plant to hide a map, a.38 revolver and a thousand dollars in twenties he’d saved up in case he needed it to leave the area after his show. He didn’t think he was being optimistic. He felt that his simple but spectacular plan, executed only by him with no other help, would cause enough terror and confusion that he would walk away cleanly and be able to enjoy it for a long time. He had been fighting to keep his mind on the task, even though he had started to get a better idea involving Turkey Point nuclear power plant. Finish what those damn Arabs had started. Shit, it had taken those two idiots months to bring him into their plans and then to try to recruit three others even to attempt to pull it off, and they hadn’t come close. It was true that the reason they hadn’t come close was because of Wells himself, but that was their failure. Too many people involved. At the time, Wells hadn’t realized the wild disorder the plan might cause. It would also have cost a lot of lives. He hadn’t wanted that to happen two years ago. Now it was a tradeoff. A few lives for a lot of chaos. He obviously was past that concern.
Just after he passed the road where that Klan idiot, Ed Conners, lived, his truck let loose with a booming backfire. It scared even him. He hoped the old racist had jumped at the sound, too. He never took his foot off the gas. A block later, he saw a couple of cars in the old closed Manny’s Market. A god-awful gold-colored Cherokee next to a little low-rider Honda. He saw a guy walking around the Honda with some kind of tarp and thought he looked familiar. Wells shrugged and kept driving.
Tasker was about halfway done setting up his prank when he heard what sounded like a gunshot. He ducked behind the Honda, still holding the plastic sheet he’d found near the empty building, behind an old sign that read MANNY’S MARKET. As soon as he discovered that the loud boom was a backfire from an old blue Ford Ranger pickup coming down Krome Avenue, Tasker turned his attention back to the Honda to make sure the noise hadn’t awakened Jimmy. To Tasker’s surprise, Jimmy Lail’s head still lay motionless against the driver’s-side window. The car was idling to give the worn-out FBI agent air conditioning. Tasker could hear the soft thump of the bass from a CD or the radio. He continued to wrap the opaque plastic, probably used for farming, all around the small car. It was thicker than a garbage bag and about three feet wide. Tasker wrapped the whole car twice, blocking out all light. He had looped over the passenger door so he could slip inside when he was finished.
He’d paused just after the blue Ranger had driven past. He didn’t know why, but the lone vehicle gave him a funny feeling. He had seen that it hadn’t come from the house they were watching but didn’t understand why it made him uneasy. He shrugged it off, like so many other odd feelings cops get, and went back to the task at hand. The little Honda was now covered with black plastic. Tasker could walk away now, but he wanted to see Jimmy Lail’s reaction. He carefully parted the strips of plastic so he could open the passenger door. Pulling the handle in steps took over a full minute. Once it was opened a crack, Tasker realized that the music Jimmy had been listening to was much louder than the car had let on and had masked all of Tasker’s activity. He slid into the seat and pulled the door shut, allowing the plastic from outside to fall into place on his window, too. The interior was surprisingly dark. Little cracks of light slipped in here and there, giving him just enough light to make out the snoring form of Jimmy Lail. Drool ran down the corner of his open mouth as air rushed past his apparently swollen adenoids.
Tasker was going to enjoy this.
Daniel Wells was a couple blocks down the road before the eerie feeling that he had just avoided danger passed. He took Krome all the way into Homestead, then turned east toward the racetrack. He kept his speed down, remembering the officious Homestead cop who’d written him for speeding in the Toyota a few weeks earlier.
Arriving at the little dirt turnoff, he turned south, toward one of the canals that cooled the giant nuclear reactor over at the power plant. No one would notice the disturbed dirt and lime where the box was buried, but if you knew where it was, it was obvious. He pulled right next to it and took out a small army-surplus folding shovel from behind the seat of his Ranger pickup. A minute of scraping the dirt from the box gave him good access. He opened it and was relieved to see it was still watertight and in good order. He threw in the gun, cash and map and pulled out some of the TATP he had stashed. In a matter of three minutes, he was on the road again without anyone knowing where the box was hidden.
He headed back to his duplex to finish up his van.
Tasker smiled to himself as he knocked lightly on the dashboard. Jimmy Lail stirred but didn’t wake. What was it with this guy? Tasker pounded a little harder. No response. This was impressive dereliction of duty. Finally, Tasker smacked the dash and yelped, “Jimmy!”
Jimmy didn’t spring awake, at least not at first. He stirred, then opened his eyes, then hissed, “Shit!” and looked at his watch, hitting the illuminate button. He studied it, not even noticing Tasker until he looked up at the dark windows again and turned toward the FDLE agent laughing in the seat next to him.
“What the fuck!” It came out in a Texas twang. “You think that’s funny?”
Tasker could only nod as he laughed and gasped for air. Tears started to run down the corners of his eyes.
“Shithead, you coulda got shot.”