Fiction: The Fugitive

He took a last squint into his binoculars, rubbed his eyes, and heaved a heavy sigh of exasperation, as he lowered his McMillan TAC-338A rifle onto the dusty, red earth. He frantically dug into his tactical vest, pulled out a bayonet, and expertly buried the 4-inch steel in the head of a rough earth snake that was only millimeters away from releasing its venom. Reptiles are common in outdoor shooting ranges, but this one took Pete unawares.

“Hey, come over here!” Pete bawled, as he made gestures with his hand to signal his sixty-five-year-old friend, Rocky, who appeared to be engrossed in his age-old knack of servicing firearms.

“Don’t tell me you need another shot, Pete. We’re running out of bottles already and it’s just been two hours,” Rocky said in a country accent.

“Oh come on! Give me a break, will you?” “I could care less about booze…just come take a look at this thing,” Pete retorted.

Curious, Rocky scurried to where Pete was. “Damn! It’s the longest evil thing I have ever seen,” Rocky exclaimed.

“Tell me about it! This creature is longer than my ten miserable years in that dungeon called M I 5,” Pete said, as he hoisted the lifeless snake into a plastic bag.

“If you call working for British Intelligence miserable, what then do you expect me to call working for the FBI for a quarter of a century, only to be kicked out a year before retirement?” Rocky said in a contentious tone.

“Your situation is different from mine, Rocky. You know that you wouldn’t be alive now if you had remained in the bureau thumbing through dense case files and bugging yourself down over unsolved crimes. Your health was top priority and the bureau thought it was wise to let you go.”

Disgruntled, Rocky staggered toward a cane chair near the wood mount that Pete had made and sat there. Before long, he reached for the khaki backpack where he had lodged three bottles of whisky—pulled out one of the bottles—uncorked it—and guzzled some its content. By the time he was done studying the cocking lever of his favorite Beretta Stampede revolver that was beginning to rust with age, Rocky had travelled far into the whiskey bottle, leaving just a pint for later.

Pete propped up his riffle again and aimed at the watermelon targets he had placed yards away. “Why did you suddenly stop talking, Rocky?”

“Some things are better left unsaid, Pete. I’m happy with my life now, bureau or no bureau.”

“I understand your despair, mate, but if you really think of it, my case is far worse! Just out of nowhere, I was slapped with a repulsive allegation of leaking top-secret information to the FSB. Months later, I find myself here in Missouri drinking whisky and getting accustomed to the smell of your fart,” Pete replied.

Rocky roared with laughter, allowing the chilly November breeze to blow on his coffee-tinted teeth. “That’s why I love having you around! You always make me laugh, especially when you talk in your Tony Blair accent,” Rocky said, grinning.

Pete was a tall, broad-shouldered man with pencil-line moustache that greyed at the edges. He was in his late fifties but still had the disposition and charm of a youngster. His green eyes had seen a lot: the unexplainable death of his wife, the brutal murder of his only son, and the death of his mother, Elizabeth, who died from heart attack. Although Pete was born and raised in a catholic home in North London, he hated church. He had an aversion for preachers. He blamed God for all his predicament and vowed to steer clear of religion. Pete had fled the U.K. to seek asylum in the U.S. when he was accused of espionage. And since the only person Pete trusted was Rocky—a former FBI agent, who he met over a decade ago in a counterterrorism briefing in Copenhagen, Pete resolved that his best bet was to stay in Rocky’s discreet home in St. Louis until he could come up with a game plan to dismantle the accusations leveled against him.

Pete and Rocky continued their leisurely visit to the shooting range and golf course for another four years until Pete had an encounter with a Slovenian woman who was hired to serve in one of the bars the duo frequented.

Margaret was a tall, slender-bodied brunette with bright, kaleidoscope eyes and plump lips. Her breasts were full and firm, and her bodycon clothing revealed her shapely figure. She was in her late twenties and was always praised for her resplendent sense of fashion. She had a mesmerizing scent and something about her voice quickened Pete’s pulse.

It was a warm Friday night in the month of July, Pete and Rocky had just returned from the golf course. Following a delicious supper at a fancy restaurant, both men drove to their favorite bar. Pete lighted up in excitement as he walked into the bar where Margaret had now worked for two weeks. As Pete and Rocky leisurely strolled to buy drinks, Rocky exchanged smiles and locked eyes with a few acquaintances.

“Hey honey, can we have two shots of tequila for starters, please?” they both said in near-perfect unison, as if they had rehearsed the request.

Pete leaned on Rocky, appearing to press against Rocky’s earlobes, he whispered “the last time I saw a woman this beautiful was in Guadalajara.”

“I hope you’re not talking about Maggie,” Rocky retorted.

“Why don’t you let me finish my story first, party pooper?”

Slightly irked, Rocky slowly untangled himself from Pete, who seemed to carelessly bury his nose in Rocky’s grizzly sideburn in an attempt to break through the noise in the bar.

Pete continued his story with a smirk on his face. “Well, shortly after I finished my law degree at Oxford, I was contracted to work as a private investigator in Mexico, where I was assigned to unravel the clandestine dealings of a few corrupt drug law enforcement officers.”

“Enough of all these Sylvester Stallone escapades!” Rocky interjected. “Save your tales for later, Mr. Bond!” Rocky added with a sarcastic stare.

The two men ordered more shots of liquor and later proceeded to take their seats. The bar was nothing out of the ordinary: overjoyed folks, high-spirited bar tenders, uncivilized rogues chattering in loud voices, and a few seemingly perturbed lads, who appeared to be wondering what the heck they were doing in an “old people” bar.

Before Pete and Rocky left the bar, Margaret slipped a paper in Pete’s hand with her cellphone number scribbled on it. “Call me,” she said.

The sound of an idling engine was all Pete could hear when he bade Maggie goodbye and briskly walked to meet an ostensibly jealous Rocky in his 2006 metallic-colored Cadillac.

A month had passed since Pete and Rocky last visited Oceans Bar. The two men had gone on a boat cruise to the Bahamas and was scheduled to return to Missouri by the end of the month. Pete had phoned Maggie about the trip and informed her about their return. He had asked her if she would like to go out for dinner. She agreed and inquired about the time, day, and location.

“6 p.m., Thursday, Beau Originale,” Pete said, as he enthusiastically talked into his cellphone. The conversation lasted half an hour before Pete hung up.

“I might be a bit old, but I know I still got that laddish charm,” Pete said, half aloud, to himself.

The two men had stayed in a hotel following their 3-week cruise. Their flight back to Missouri was scheduled to leave the next week.

On that Thursday evening, Pete readied himself for his date with Maggie. Rocky was busy watering his bamboo palm and chopping off overlapping plants that grew wildly around his colorful patio.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to dinner with that little girl,” Rocky asked with a strange look on his face.

“Hell yeah! It’s been a long time coming,” Pete retorted, as he adjusted his bow tie and picked the lint off his tux.

“Well, I have a few old buddies coming to pick me up this evening, so I may not be home when you return” Rocky said, as he tossed two slices of toast bread in a saucer.

“Great! No worries, mate!” Pete said, grinning.

“I might call you to come over and join us if I think it’s worth it; we’re going to a jazz concert downtown.” Rocky said, with his mouth swollen with food.

“Umm, we’ll see, brother man…I need to leave now,” Pete replied.

Pete picked up his sheepskin wallet, grabbed his pair of reading glasses, and disappeared with his navy-blue jacket cascading from his right arm.

“Put your hands where I can see ‘em!” yelled a quick-tempered law enforcement agent, who had his gun pointed at Pete. Pete froze in shock and wine dribbled down his mouth, leaving a huge red stain on his white, Egyptian cotton shirt. His heart sank into his stomach when another agent yelled, “get on the ground!”

Pete could hear the distant voices of chattering law enforcement agents against the backdrop of several wailing police sirens. He swiftly laid spread eagle on the ground, motionless. “Oh, Maggie!” he thought.

A few minutes ago, Maggie excused herself to go to the bathroom, and it has been nearly 25 minutes and she still was not in sight. At first, Pete thought she was retouching her makeup, but now, he was beginning to make sense of the whole event.

Before Pete could move a muscle, three hefty officers rushed in, grabbed him by the arm and yanked him up on his feet.

“Mr. Ferguson, you can run but you can never hide,” said a mean-looking officer whose eyeballs looked like that of a famished orangutan.

Pete was immediately handcuffed. It was then that Margarete showed up and introduced herself as Agent Claudia.

“I’m sorry Mr. Ferguson…I mean, Pete, but you are under arrest,” Agent Claudia said wittingly, while casting a stern gaze at a quivering Pete. “Your friend Rocky told us all we needed to know about your whereabouts. He gave us the lead and we immediately swung into action. I was stationed here to help hatch this plan,” Agent Claudia revealed.

“What? You mean Rocky set me up?!” Pete yelled.

“I’m afraid, yes, Mr. Ferguson” Agent Claudia retorted.

Pete’s anger grew. His eyes widened. His voice cracked and green veins popped from his hairy, pale hands. Furious, Pete attempted to swing a fist at Agent Claudia, but an alert officer knocked him out cold on the floor with a pistol. When Pete opened his eyes, he found himself in an interrogation room in the FBI headquarters in Washington D.C., where the silhouetted outline of Rocky’s figure was cast on a bulletproof glass demarcation.

“I should have known all along. Slithery evil thing!” Pete mumbled and buried his face in his palm. He stole another gaze and slowly let the tears in his eyes to flow freely.