Open Source Page 18

  “Look, man, I don’t know what I’m gonna do,” Casey said. “I told that chick from New York what I thought, but I don’t know if anyone else will listen to me, anyway. I don’t feel like getting anymore bruises over this thing. It’s not worth it.”

  Chip looked disappointed. He had never known anyone who was being hunted by international bad guys. He thought his association with Casey had just put him in the middle of a real-life, Hollywood action story. He agreed he wouldn’t like to see his friend get hurt again, but the cops were involved now. They would make sure Casey was safe, right? “I guess not,” Chip finally said. He picked up his beer bottle again. Still empty. “You guys want another one?”

  Casey smiled at his friend. “Won’t Laura cut your balls off if she finds out you had two beers?”

  Chip thought about that as Mike also turned his attention to Chip, awaiting an answer. Chip stood up and declared, “My friend was almost killed two days ago...”

  “Three,” Mike said.

  “...three days ago. I think I am going to have a few beers with him to celebrate his cheating death.”

  “Bravo,” Mike said.

  “In that case, we’ll have another round,” Casey announced. He smiled as he watched Chip march defiantly to the bar, dialing his cell phone along the way.

  Casey wondered if Chip was right. He wasn’t a man of principles. In fact, Casey thought that most people who made decisions “because of the principle of the matter” were usually just trying to avoid making a tough choice to do the right thing. Casey knew each situation contained a unique set of circumstances, and sometimes doing the right thing meant you had to do something others considered wrong to meet that end. He believed in the importance of the right to Freedom of Speech as much as the next man. But that wasn’t what drove his decision of whether or not to dig deeper into the Baltic Venture story.

  Chip’s response to Anton’s advice about listening to the threats and “backing off” made him think about why he initially agreed with the trooper. He was putting concern for his own safety over something more important to Casey. Fear. He refused to be ruled by fear, and he wasn’t going to let the attempt on his life change who he was or what he did. He would continue to follow the developments of the hijacking as long as there was more information to be found and reported, particularly if the media refused to do the work themselves. Bill of Rights aside, Casey was having fun solving the Baltic Venture puzzle, and he wasn’t going to stop just because some schoolyard bully pushed him down and stole his lunch money. That’s not who he was.

  Chip got back to the table and set the beers down as he took his seat. “Here you go,” he said as he passed them to his friends.

  “What did Laura say?” Casey asked.

  “She said I was good to go as long as I got a ride home or took a cab. Wait...how’d you know I called her?”

  Casey just laughed and thanked Chip for the beer. “I’m gonna keep following the Baltic Venture,” he told Chip. “If some new developments occur that I can piece together, I’ll write about them.”

  Chip smiled. “Good for you. I knew you wouldn’t let them scare you.”

  “Well, I think the Russians made their point. Even though I’m not going to cow to their threats, I doubt they’ll try to hurt me again. Not with the cops involved now. Too much visibility.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Mike said. “But you still might want to watch your back.” He looked above Casey’s head and pointed.

  “Casey Shenk. Long time no see.”

  Casey cringed at the voice and slowly turned around to see Kirsten Anderson, former girlfriend and full-time psycho, standing right behind him. Casey didn’t go out of his way to avoid running into Kirsten after they, specifically he, ended the two-month long relationship almost a year ago, but he was glad that she didn’t haunt the same establishments as he did. Apparently his luck had run out.

  “Hi, Kirsten. How are you?” Casey asked, though he truly didn’t care how she was.

  “I’m doing just fine. Hey, Mike,” she said with a forced smile. She looked at Chip but could not recall his name, so she just nodded and focused her attention on Casey, who had turned back around, and continued to drink his beer. “I’m here with my boyfriend, Terry.”

  “I know that guy! He’s a douche bag,” Mike said. He actually didn’t know anyone named Terry, but he wanted Kirsten to leave just as much as Casey did, and he thought if he upset her slightly off-kilter sensibilities, she would go away.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Kirsten told Mike. “I’m not stooping down to your level. Terry is a lawyer and a good man. I just came over to say hello, Casey, and see how you were doing. You don’t have to be so cruel.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Casey said. “Thanks Mike.” The three friends laughed as Kirsten pushed her way rudely through the crowd and sat at a table across the room occupied by a handful of conservatively dressed, executive-looking men and women. Kirsten was in her element, which was one of the reasons her relationship with Casey didn’t have a chance from the start. She wanted the high-life, and Casey was a borderline low-life. Kirsten thought she could mold Casey into husband material, and Casey was not willing to be molded.

  “At least she has a boyfriend. That means she won’t be over here trying to pick you up, Casey,” Chip said.

  “Or maybe she is. Maybe she just works with those people and she wants Casey, here, to get jealous and regret ever dumping her overbearing, psychotic-ass,” Mike added.

  “I hope Chip is right on this one,” Casey said. He got up from the table and announced, “I gotta piss.”

  When Casey headed to the restroom, Chip noticed Kirsten’s gaze following the whole way. “Man, we gotta watch out for that chick, Mike. I think maybe you were right,” he laughed.

  “I’m gonna go burn a weed. You okay to watch our stuff?” Mike asked as he stood up.

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll stand Kirsten guard until Casey gets back.”

  “Thanks.” Mike picked up the keys to Casey’s pick-up before he left. “I have to get something out of the truck,” he explained. Chip didn’t acknowledge Mike. He just sipped his beer, happy to be off his leash for at least one night.

  Lev Cohen lay silent on the flat metal roof of an old garage one block down from The Sunset Tavern. After following the target’s green pick-up truck from the gas station, he circled around the small town of Thunderbolt when the truck was parked at the tavern. It was dark and raining. Both would provide cover for him to carry out his mission undetected, but the rain, in particular, made the job both uncomfortable and unpredictable. It always did.

  The Mossad operative quickly singled out the old building as the best candidate for him to take up position. It was also the only solid structure, aside from a few ancient oak trees, from which he could get a shot.

  At just over one hundred yards, the job should be fairly simple. Should be. Cohen thought back to the almost arrogant confidence in Eli Gedide’s voice when he spoke to him earlier in the day and spit. He knew Gedide was a shooter in his past life, but that didn’t offset the fact that the man had been behind a desk for over two decades.

  Lev pulled on the bill of his ball cap. A stream of water poured down. He shifted slightly to keep the blood flowing in his legs. He had been in the same prone position for over an hour. It was not the longest he had to wait for a job, but then again, he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He thought that was probably one of the reasons he was sent to America four years earlier. It wasn’t the primary reason, but no one wanted to tell him that to his face. They said they needed his skills in the U.S. at the moment. Lev was told that because of his neutrally-accented English speaking ability, and his age, he would blend in without any problems. He would be able to stay off of everyone’s radar scopes. Bullshit. The tough jobs were back home. That’s where the action was. But Cohen consoled himself with knowing it wouldn’t be long before he retired, so he went where they told him to go.

  A narrow blanket o
f light emerged from behind the building and was quickly extinguished. Someone had come out the back door. Lev Cohen flipped up the front lens cap of the Bushnell scope. He looked in the direction of the body moving toward the vehicles behind the tavern. With his finger placed lightly on the trigger of the Lazzeroni 7.82mm long-range hunting rifle, Lev tensed with anticipation as the figure stopped at a green Chevy pick-up truck—the target’s truck. The driver-side door of the truck opened, and the overhead light in the cab came on. The shooter relaxed slightly and moved his finger outside the trigger guard. It was not him.

  It was the other man who was with the target and the policeman at the target’s house earlier—the one who rode with the target to the tavern. Lev watched from his vantage point on the passenger side of the vehicle as the man climbed inside and closed the door to get out of the rain. He prayed silently that the man would not leave with the vehicle. The truck was even more important for identifying the target tonight because of the rain. He was counting on catching Mr. Shenk as he got in his truck to go home for the night.

  The engine was not starting. The man wasn’t even trying to start it. Barux hashem, Lev thought. Thank God. He was tired and wet and did not want to deal with any more complications than had already found their way into this mission. He lowered the rifle and watched the truck a few minutes more. The man inside was smoking, and the cab was getting cloudy. Lev decided whoever the target’s friend was must be smoking marijuana or possibly angel dust—something he didn’t want to smoke in the front of the building where people had come and gone all night for a nicotine fix. He decided there was no harm here, and he focused his vigil back onto the tavern itself, waiting for the target to emerge.

  Chapter 22

  Casey wiped his hands on his jeans as he came out of the restroom. The paper towels had already run out. He sat back down next to Chip, who was sitting in front of another round of cold beer singing along with the karaoke rendition of Don McLean’s abnormally long “American Pie”—a favorite of those who wanted to maximize their time on stage. Casey’s friend was clearly enjoying his night out with the boys and no restrictions from home.

  “Where’s Mike?” Casey asked, looking around the room.

  “What? Oh, he went outside to smoke,” Chip said, moving right into the second verse without missing a beat.

  “Thanks for the beer, man. I’ll get the next round,” Casey said. Chip raised his bottle in acknowledgement and kept singing.

  Casey finished off his beer and grabbed one of the new ones, wet with condensation. He knew he would get no conversation from Chip until the song was over, so he scanned the room for anything interesting until Mike returned. The early college returnees were haphazardly gathered at the tables at the foot of the stage, joining right along with Chip in assisting the karaoke singer belt out a tune written well-before most of them were born. The floor waitresses made their way from table to bar in a scene that Casey thought was not unlike bees in a flower garden searching for whatever it was bees looked for in flower gardens. Two of the local shrimpers were challenging a group of college students to a game of pool next to him. The intoxication of both parties made it hard for Casey to determine who was winning and who was losing.

  “She keeps looking over here,” Chip said when he was done bidding Miss American Pie farewell.

  Casey turned to his friend. “Who?”

  “Kirsten. She keeps looking over here. She has been since you went to the restroom.”

  Casey looked over at the table of executives where Kirsten was seated. She smiled briefly when she caught Casey’s eye. The smile quickly disappeared as the bald man in his mid-thirties beside her said something in her ear. Casey wondered if this was “Terry.” The smile returned as Kirsten laughed at whatever the man had said to her. She turned to him and they kissed on the lips. Casey would have left it there, relieved that Kirsten was otherwise occupied, if it wasn’t for the look she gave him next.

  With squinted eyes and a Disney step-mother sneer, Kirsten looked directly at Casey. He nearly choked on his beer. Did she really think he was jealous? Was she really under the impression that Casey would see her kiss another man and come over there, looking for a fight for the hand of the fair maiden? He swiveled back to the center of the table, picked up a napkin that was wrapped around an empty bottle, and wiped his mouth.

  “What is up with that chick?” Chip asked.

  “You saw that too?” Casey asked.

  “Yeah. Doesn’t she think that if you were still interested, you would have called her sometime this year?”

  “No shit.” Casey tipped his beer bottle again while Rosie called the name of the next singer. Two of the lawyers—Casey assumed they were lawyers because Kirsten worked as a paralegal—took the stage, dragging a half-reluctant blonde in a navy blue miniskirt and white tank-top with them. The shorter of the two men pulled the stool on the stage to the center and beckoned the young woman to have a seat.

  “Here we go, again,” Chip announced. “Every week. Like clockwork.”

  The two men began serenading the woman with “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’.”

  “I wonder which one’s Goose, this time?” Casey asked. Both men laughed as they watched the Top Gun scene repeated for the thousandth time. Just like the first time, the bar got louder as the performers’ friends cheered and sang along, as if the men needed encouragement.

  The ruckus gave Casey an idea. He took another swig from his bottle and stood up. “I’ll be right back,” he told Chip, who was just starting on the beer he had purchased for the absent Mike Tunney.

  Casey walked up behind Rosie who was busy looking for the next song on her list. “Hey, Rosie,” Casey said as he grabbed her around the waist and planted a kiss on her neck. She jumped, startled, and turned around.

  “Hey, Casey,” she said and smiled. “What can I do for you? Are you gonna get up there and sing tonight? You haven’t gotten up there in a while.”

  “Actually, that’s what I wanted to ask you. Would you be so kind as to put me in next?” He gave Rosie his best puppy-dog look.

  Rosie looked at her list. Next up was one of the jocks at the table to her right. He was getting ready for his third performance of the night. Each one was worse than the previous attempt, proportional to the amount of alcohol he continued to consume. “Sure. Rizzo won’t know the difference,” she said. “What do you want to do?”

  Casey told her and went back to the table to grab his Rolling Rock. He took a long drink and smiled at Chip, who looked back in puzzlement. He then put the bottle back down and walked toward the steps to the stage. The Everly Brothers ended to a thunderous round of applause from the executive seats, and Casey slowly stepped onto the stage.

  “Next up is Casey. Casey, are you ready?” she asked as the disk loaded in the karaoke machine. Casey moved the stool out of the way and walked up to the microphone. He nodded to Rosie, who started the song.

  The background noise abated as the heavy drums and accompanying guitar riff of R.E.M. filled the bar. Eyes turned to Casey as he took the mike and began singing the subdued lyrics of Michael Stipe’s “The One I Love.” Chip watched his friend, always amazed that Casey didn’t sing more than he did. He thought his friend could land a recording contract, or a place on American Idol, if he wanted. Kirsten also watched Casey.

  A slight chill went through Kirsten’s body as her former boyfriend versed the lyrics, “This one goes out to the one I love. This one goes out to the one I’ve left behind.” She thought Casey was singing a love song just for her.

  Casey knew Kirsten was staring right at him. He looked at her and sensed that she was taking the song to mean just what he wanted her to think. He looked directly into her eyes three tables back as he sang, “A simple prop, to occupy my time. This one goes out to the one I love.”

  Kirsten was listening. She got the message and stood up violently. She threw Casey an evil look and stormed off to the bathroom, knocking a half-empty pitcher of beer off of
the table of a poor couple who happened to be in her way. She heard none of the ensuing protests.

  When Casey finished, he waved to his new collegiate fan base and exchanged a few high fives on his way back to his table. He knew it was a cruel thing to do, but he felt good. He never thought he would get to use the Athens, Georgia, classic the way it was meant to be used, and he was giddy with the effect it had.

  “That was awesome, dude,” Chip said as he patted his friend on the back. “Oh, shit. Sorry,” he said when Casey winced. Chip forgot that his friend had just had an accident. The beer made sure of that.

  “It’s alright,” Casey said. “And thanks. That felt good. I don’t think Kirsten will come back to the Sunset again, after tonight.” Casey was normally a gentle soul who made a point of avoiding hurting anyone’s feelings, but some people need a little calibration from time to time. It was Kirsten’s turn to be calibrated.

  “Mike’s been gone a long time,” Casey observed. “He woulda loved that show.”

  “He said he was just going to have a smoke,” Chip said. “He took your keys though. Said he needed something from the truck.”

  Casey saw that his truck keys were, in fact, missing, and he knew exactly what his friend was doing. “I’ll be right back,” he said and headed towards the front door.

  Lev Cohen laid the rifle on its side. He rubbed the rain off of his wristwatch and cursed. His stomach rumbled when it became aware of how long it had been since Lev ate last. At least the bars here close at two a.m., he thought. He picked the rifle back up and continued his surveillance of the parking lot. “Shit,” he muttered and focused through the optical sight of his rifle. Someone was outside the truck. He cursed himself for dropping his guard. Whoever it was had approached when he wasn’t looking.

  Lev reached around to the forward lens and cleared the sheath of water that had collected there. Better. It was the target. He was sure of it. Because of his position, he would have to take a shot through the passenger window. No matter. As long as he could see the target. He allowed himself to smile. The target was going to help him out.