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  After fifteen minutes, Casey shut off the lights inside the garage and closed the door. He climbed into the cab of the white truck and pulled away toward the compound’s exit. He yawned and rubbed his eyes as he waited for the security gate bar to rise. When most people leave the military, they look for a nine-to-five job that will allow them to come into work at a decent hour. Not Casey. When he finished his time in the Navy, he found a job driving a vending route, which necessitated that he wake up well before reveille—a victim of circumstance, and proof that the grass really isn’t always greener on the other side. Though he often missed his former life at sea, parts of it anyway, Casey was content with the choices he made. For better or worse.

  When the way was clear, Casey eased out onto the road and turned right, towards the highway. The radio was tuned to 95.5 FM, Savannah’s “I-95, the Rock of Savannah.” Casey turned the volume up as he heard the familiar melancholy drum line and ominous guitar strum of the opening to Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.” He didn’t care for the balding British former front-man of Genesis, but this song was one of the greatest tunes of all time, in Casey’s mind. Part of the reason for that was the song’s inclusion in the pilot episode of Miami Vice in the early Eighties.

  Those guys had the life, Casey thought. He mentally compared his own life to that of Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs, and sighed. He knew it was only a television show, and he was living in the real world, but the differences were sobering, and at times depressing. The life of drugs, guns, good guys and bad guys in South Florida was a far cry from the lonely drudgery of filling soda machines five days a week in Savannah, Georgia.

  Casey eased the vehicle to a lumbering stop at the intersection at the top of the hill. The truck began to slowly move forward before he took his foot off the brake. Casey paid no attention to the sudden softening of the brake’s tension as he pivoted his right foot to the accelerator and began the long winding downgrade to the bottom and the on-ramp to the highway. He thought of the stops he had to make that day and hoped he got to the Home Depot before the always-bitter East European cleaning woman began emptying the trash in the break room. Casey had apparently done something to offend her shortly after she got the job, and no matter how many times he greeted her with a smile and a kind word, all he ever got in return was a dirty look. It made for an unpleasant start to the day that Casey tried his best to avoid whenever possible.

  A normal driver would have turned on their high beams as the darkened road, barely illuminated by too few street lamps, followed an unnecessary S-turn path down the tree-lined slope. Casey’s truck, however, did not afford him this option. The brights had been out for over a year, despite Casey’s best efforts to isolate the problem. Without this safety element, Casey instead slowed down to well below the speed limit whenever he navigated this stretch of road. Usually.

  Casey put his foot on the brake pedal, expecting to hear the high pitched squeal of the thinning brake pads as they slowed the momentum of the one-and-a-half-ton converted box truck. Instead, the pedal resisted for a second and fell flush with the floorboard. Casey’s heart skipped as he immediately came to the realization that he had no brakes. He gripped the wheel tighter and focused his attention on keeping the truck between the lines as he rounded the first curve of the right-left road geometry ahead. The truck continued to pick up speed and was passing forty-five miles per hour as it continued down the hill.

  Casey was starting to sweat. Not so unusual for a muggy August morning in the Deep South, but this sweat was fueled by adrenaline and a little bit of fear. Casey knew the top-heavy vending truck was far from NASCAR-spec, and he cursed his bad luck.

  “The one fucking hill in Pooler...,” he mused. He thought he would be alright if he could just get through the next curve. After that it was a straight run to the bottom of the hill where it bottomed out before a slight incline near the on-ramp to I-95 South. Casey didn’t plan to get on the highway, but he hoped he wouldn’t pick up too much speed before the truck naturally slowed. The hill wasn’t too steep, so he thought he would be going slow enough at the bottom to pull into the Winn-Dixie parking lot and call it a day.

  He came around the left-hand curve at fifty-five, just as Phil Collins’ drum machine blasted out a heavy beat that changed the tempo of the song. Casey normally would have acted out an animated, violent air-drum in time to the music at this point in the song. Now he just wished the radio was off, but he didn’t dare take his hands off the steering wheel to silence it. As Casey exited the left turn and anticipated the relief he expected would come when he saw the lights at the bottom of the hill from the shopping center and the gas stations on either side of the intersection, his body tensed as he witnessed another type of light altogether.

  Another early-morning commuter started to pull out from a side street on the right. Casey laid on the horn. “Move, motherfucker! Move!” Casey screamed frantically as if the driver of the other car could hear him. The driver did hear the truck’s horn, however. Casey thought maybe the horn wasn’t such a good idea after all as the station wagon—Casey could now see the vehicle clearly in his own headlights—came to a complete stop. Startled by the horn of the speeding truck, the station wagon’s driver slammed on his own brakes, effectively blocking the entire lane. Casey pulled the wheel to the left and entered the oncoming traffic lane to avoid hitting the other car.

  “Oh shit,” Casey said under his breath. A truck, much larger than his, was heading directly for him. Concentrating solely on the station wagon, Casey had neglected to look far enough ahead to anticipate the consequences of his actions. The driver of the semi-truck was no doubt cursing Casey as he too began sounding his much louder, much deeper warning. Casey subconsciously, but wisely, decided that he stood a much better chance of surviving the ordeal if he avoided a head-on collision. He pulled the wheel of the Vandura to the left once more, this time towards the road’s embankment and the tall pines that lined it.

  “This is gonna hurt,” Casey said as he felt the truck pulling right, guided by its off-balance design. As soon as he left the pavement and hit the grass, the left-side tires came off the ground completely. Casey tucked his head in his arms to prevent his face from going through the steering wheel when he impacted the trees. The truck completed its fall and slid the last five yards on its right side before being mercifully stopped by the trunks of two evergreens. Casey noted the outgoing Doppler sound of the semi’s horn as he hung upside down along the truck’s bench seat, suspended at the waist by the seat belt. He made an attempt to unbuckle the restraint, but his own weight prevented the buckle’s release. The pain in his sides was almost unbearable, and as the blood moved to his head, drawn by the effect of gravity while he hung there, his ear drums and eyes felt ready to explode. Relief came in short order as Casey slipped into unconsciousness.

  “Good afternoon.”

  Casey stirred and opened his eyes. His tongue probed the inside of his mouth to verify that the dryness was not the result of desert sand or cotton balls. His sight came into focus, and he looked up at the nurse who marked something on a clipboard before placing it into a plastic holder at the foot of the bed. His bed. Casey quickly surmised that he was in a hospital.

  “Good afternoon,” he replied in a raspy voice. Casey tried to sit up in the bed and sucked hard through his teeth as the pain from his right side shot through him like a knife to the ribs.

  “Wait! Slow down, dear,” the nurse chided as she quickly moved to the side of the bed. Casey got a better look at her as his vision returned to normal, at least at close range. She was probably fifty-five, he guessed, about five feet tall and wearing a nurse hat like you see in movies. Casey wasn’t convinced he wasn’t just dreaming the almost comical scene next to him as the nurse struggled to incline the back portion of the bed. Another lightning bolt of pain quickly informed him that he was very much awake.

  “What happened to me?” Casey asked the nurse as she stood back up and straightened her hat, bed adjustment c
ompleted.

  “Well, you were in a bad wreck early this morning. You flipped your truck over by....”

  “No, I know that. I mean what’s the damage? To me, not the truck.”

  Before she could answer, the two looked over as a large Georgia State Trooper entered the room and removed his drill sergeant cover. Anton’s frame took up the entire doorway, and his startling presence would have caused any other hospitalized individual to faint. The tiny nurse almost did.

  “Hey, man! You’re awake! How do you feel?”

  “Like shit,” Casey answered.

  “Yeah, well, you took quite a tumble. Good thing you were wearing your seatbelt,” Anton said.

  “You’re telling me. Did you read the accident report...oww! Damnit, that hurt!” Casey gingerly felt his side and noticed the bandage wrapped around his torso.

  “You really should try to not move too much, honey,” the nurse said. Casey had almost forgotten that she was even in the room. “Here. Take these. They’ll help the pain.” She handed Casey a small paper cup with two pills inside.

  “What is it?” Casey asked.

  “Motrin.”

  Casey looked at her and laughed. “Vitamin M.” He thought about his time in the Navy. For eight years, he saw Navy doctors and corpsmen prescribe Motrin to sailors for everything from a headache to an amputated finger. One of his shipmates, Chris something-or-other, fell down a flight of metal stairs, a ladder, into Auxiliary Machinery Room 2 when the ship took an unexpected roll in heavy seas. By the time he landed on the grating at the bottom, he had broken one arm, an ankle, and put a gash on the back of his head big enough to run a five-inch hose through. When the sounding and security watch found him fifteen minutes later and brought the lame petty officer to medical, Doc set his broken appendages and sewed up his head wound. For his troubles, Chris was given a bottle of Motrin and told to get some rest. Casey upended the cup and washed the pills down with some water that the nurse had placed on the tray next to the bed.

  “Thanks,” he said as the nurse took the empty cups and left the two men alone. Casey slowly leaned back and tried to get comfortable. He glanced at the clock on the wall behind Anton and noticed that it was four-thirty in the afternoon. It had been almost twelve hours since the accident. “Man, how long did I sleep for?”

  “I don’t know how long you’ve been asleep, actually. But you were still passed out when the ambulance came. You sure didn’t make it easy for me to get you out. Felt like a damn sack o’ bricks.”

  Casey was taken aback. “You got me out?”

  “Yeah, I was just heading home after shift change when I heard the call on the radio. Some trucker called it in I guess. I sure didn’t expect to find you there.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. I might still be hanging there if Jeffries was the first responder.” Casey and Anton laughed at the thought of Trooper Mark Jeffries, all one hundred and twenty pounds of him, trying to free Casey from the overturned truck. Casey thought about the truck. And the brakes. “I can’t believe the brakes just shit the bed on me like that.”

  “No brakes. I thought it must have been something like that. Especially when your blood test was negative,” Anton said.

  “Thought maybe I was drunk or stoned?” Casey asked with a smirk.

  “Hey, man, don’t look at me. Hospital procedures, that’s all,” Anton laughed holding up his hands. “Anyway, better they did it so there’s no question. Lucky you didn’t hit nobody. There’s no one to press charges for reckless driving, unless the trees wanna make a stink.”

  “Still,” Casey said, “I just took that piece of shit into the shop two months ago to get the bald-ass tires rotated. You think maybe they would have seen something then, if there was a problem. I don’t know.” Casey closed his eyes, but they came open almost immediately. After being shut for such a long period of time, the last thing his eyes wanted was more darkness.

  “Look, Casey. I gotta get to work. Pulling a double tonight, but I just wanted to stop by and see how you were doing,” Anton said as he stood up to leave.

  “Thanks, friend. For everything,” Casey said.

  “Anytime, man. You take it easy for a few days. Bruised ribs ain’t no joke.” Anton made it to the doorway and turned back to Casey. He put his trooper’s hat back on and said, “I had your pick-up towed to your house so you’d have it when you get outta here. They should let you out tonight, but you better ask that nurse lady to be sure.”

  “You’re the shiznit, brother. Thanks again.”

  Anton laughed. “You’re welcome, Snoop Dog.” He thought Casey’s attempts to use street language ala rap music were both weak and humorous at the same time—all in good fun. “Your work truck is in the impound yard in Savannah. Chatham Sheriff’s got jurisdiction on this one, but I’ll talk to those guys tomorrow to have them check out your brakes. You shouldn’t have to worry about anything else. Except maybe your boss.” Anton’s lips parted into a wide grin, revealing teeth Casey was sure had to be bleached. It wasn’t natural to have teeth that white, he thought, partly out of jealousy.

  Casey waved goodbye and winced from the effort. He wasn’t looking forward to the cab ride home. He looked around the bed and found the cord draped on the side railing. He reeled in the end of it and thumbed the blue button that would summon the nurse. Casey just wanted to know when he’d be able to go home. He could go for a beer or two right about now. That, he reasoned, would help the pain more than the Motrin—at least until morning.

  Chapter 13

  New York City

  Susan Williams closed the door behind her. She turned in the “draft” report of her theory on the sale of stolen Russian S-300 air-defense missiles to a rogue element of Iran’s Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps and headed back to her cubicle. Her boss had wanted something concrete to back up her theory, but she was running out of stones to turn. Susan needed a break. Not a break from work, a break in her investigation. She was lucky to stumble across that blog from Savannah, but now she was afraid she had gone down the wrong path. What am I missing?

  Susan stopped in the break room and poured a cup of coffee, taking the last remnants from the pot. She set the styrofoam cup down to cool off and took the pot to the sink. As she finished preparing a new batch to brew, Phil walked in. He looked disappointed when he noticed he would have to wait before he could fill his CIA mug with the bean-filtered water that kept him alive. Susan flipped the switch on the coffee maker back to “on” and turned around.

  “Fuck!” she exclaimed when she turned around. “Damnit, Phil. You scared the crap out of me.” She regained her composure and looked around for her own cup, thankful she wasn’t holding it when Phil startled her.

  “Sorry,” Phil offered.

  Susan leaned back against the counter and blew into her coffee before taking a sip. “So. How was your day?” she asked her friend.

  “Same as yesterday. Boring. I wish GM would just sell Opel to Volkswagen and get it over with. I’m sick of running numbers on a stupid car deal,” Phil said.

  “Hang in there, man. At least you have hard numbers to work with. I’m looking for ghosts.”

  “Still nothing on the missile deal?” Phil pushed.

  “No, and it’s starting to frustrate me,” Susan said. “I just wish I could find something that might prove I’m at least on the right track.” She took a sip of her coffee and added, “I’m starting to think there weren’t any missiles being sold at all, let alone smuggled on some damn ship.”

  Phil felt sorry for Susan. He pressured her into telling Jim about her theory in the first place. Maybe he should have just listened to her and let her make her own decision. Now he felt partially responsible for her dilemma. “Why don’t we go get a bite to eat. Bar food. We’ll have a few drinks and forget about it. Maybe something will come to you tomorrow, and you can start fresh.”

  Susan thought Phil might be right. She should just walk away from Iran, the Russians, Baltic Venture—all of it. She damn su
re wasn’t getting anywhere at the office. She looked at her watch. Five-thirty-three. Well-past quitting time.

  “What the hell. Why not?” she said. “Let me get my stuff, and I’ll meet you by the elevator.” She pitched her unfinished cup of smoldering hot coffee into the trash can and headed to her cubicle. Phil looked at the brewing coffee pot and then to his empty mug. He shrugged and went to his own desk to shut off his computer.

  The waitress brought a second round of drinks as Susan and Phil made their way through a basket of buffalo chicken wings and celery sticks. The Thursday after-work crowd made up most of the clientele at Baxter’s and provided a steady background volume that let the two analysts talk without worrying about eavesdroppers. Not that they held security clearances and were discussing classified information, but they felt more at ease knowing they were only talking to each other.

  “Thanks for suggesting this, Phil. I needed to get out,” Susan said after taking a sip of beer.

  “You’re welcome,” Phil said. “Truth is, I needed the company too. My social calendar has pretty much been open since 1993.”

  Susan laughed politely and grabbed another wing, glancing up at the television on the wall behind Phil’s head. The set was tuned to a local version of MTV—local being New York City, which for all intents and purposes was better than the original. Phil just stared at Susan as she lackadaisically devoured the fried wing of a used-to-be baby chicken. Phil was convinced the basket of fowl in front of them could only have come from pre-pubescent birds. He had never seen a full-grown chicken that small.

  Susan looked at Phil staring blankly at her. She couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or through her. She picked up another wing and held it in front of Phil’s face. “Want another one?” she asked, startling Phil back to the present.