Burn Zone Page 3

  The older man looked at his youngest son. "And Alex, what did you do today?"

  "Just follow-up on our arrest."

  Frank cut in. "Hey, you think the lady whose house you destroyed has an attorney?"

  Both Alex and César ignored him. Alex Duarte had to smile, realizing just how much of his father's attitude he had adopted. "We might be able to work the case up the line to someone big."

  César nodded, keeping his glare on Frank to ensure he had no more comments. Then he said, "Excellent. Will this case lead to a promotion?"

  "Don't know, Pop. They may not be too happy with me turning down the last one."

  His mother said, "But that would've taken you so far away."

  Duarte just nodded, though Washington wasn't the reason he hadn't taken it; it was the case he had become involved in. He had allowed a prisoner to escape, and that had led to a series of horrific events, including the death of a young boy, Héctor Tannza, killed by a booby trap. Duarte had pursued the case across the country, all the way into the heart of a conspiracy that made him question whom he could trust. He had had to see the case through-but it had cost him the supervisor's job. He still had no regrets. Now he realized that a promotion would come when it came. He loved his parents, and even his brother, but if he had to move it wouldn't bother him. He had spent almost two years in the Balkans. The only one he would really miss if he moved was Alice. If she was still speaking to him.

  ***

  Pelly drove the Cadillac SUV behind the older Dodge pickup truck on the uneven, narrow road that cut over toward the area near Colón on the east coast of Panama. The typical, bumpy, Panamanian mountain path was often called the Cocaine Highway, for obvious reasons.

  Pelly said, "You really think that following those men in a separate vehicle is wise?"

  His boss smiled as he looked out at the passing tropical foliage. "No, but my days of lifting and moving are over. These two have sat with it in the warehouse for a week. I want to keep the knowledge of the crate's contents as quiet as possible."

  "What if Gastlin is working with the authorities? What if they find the package?"

  "Pelly, I hope he is working with the DEA or customs. That means they'll be looking for drugs and nothing else. If they somehow discover our little present, then we'll be as hard to find as ever. We'll just wait and buy another. I have the feeling it's a buyer's market." He chuckled.

  Pelly knew his employer's arrogance could get him killed, but he had proven to be a brilliant businessman in the past. He probably did know how to push things.

  "You'll see, Pelly. This will be a great thing for Panama."

  Pelly let his head bob to the bounces of the Cadillac. Maybe his boss would take it as a sign of agreement without Pelly actually having to agree with any part of this crazy plan.

  His boss said, "I need some lunch. Pull ahead and have them follow us to the cantina near Gamboa."

  Pelly heard the second line on his boss's cell phone ring with a distinctive tone. He always answered that one formally.

  ***

  Alex Duarte liked the fact that the West Palm Beach office of the DEA had a secure room for placing special phone calls. His own ATF office, while in a much nicer building, was still cramped even with about a quarter as many agents. Because of the nature of their work, the DEA agents had to make undercover and overseas phone calls all the time. He sat back in the comfortable swivel chair while his friend, Félix Baez, continued to speak in Spanish on the phone. As Duarte listened, catching about a third of the words, he couldn't help but think of his parents and relatives telling him to learn Spanish. It couldn't hurt.

  They were in the small room with the door open because this wasn't an undercover call. Félix was speaking to a police administrator in Panama the DEA office in Panama had set him up with. He was the head of some Panamanian narcotics enforcement unit.

  Listening to the call, Duarte realized his mind was drifting to his conversation with Alice Brainard. She had pushed him to define his relationship with her, and he had not been able to answer. Since she had walked away from him at the gym, he had been surprised to realize how much he missed her. This was an entirely new experience for Duarte. He had always been close with his family, even if his brother annoyed him more than encouraged him, but outside of them he had been extremely self-reliant. Between the army and his job, he had not had time for much of a personal life. It wasn't until his relationship with Caren Larsen, the Department of Justice attorney on his last case, that he had realized women could be so distracting. Before the case of the serial bomber, he had laid awake at night, troubled by nightmares about some of his actions in Bosnia. The bomber case had exorcized some of those demons and eased his insomnia, but now he found he lay awake from time to time thinking of Caren. She had left the DOJ and was now in Ohio and dating an old college boyfriend, but he still felt the connection between them. He had been surprised when he had started to sleep better, but he still had restless periods when he'd have to read or even work out in the hours before sunrise. The increased sleep had not seemed to make him feel more rested or alert, but he knew it had to be having an effect. If nothing else, he didn't feel like striking his brother Frank every morning at breakfast when the attorney complained about his life.

  Félix hung up the phone. "He was pretty helpful."

  Duarte watched him, the dark eyes set in the angular face, the skin pitted with craters from a youth spent with acne.

  Félix said, "Rocket? You telepathic? Is that why you never say anything?"

  Duarte kept a straight face and just stared at him.

  "Funny," said Félix. "I heard you had no sense of humor."

  "Most people aren't funny." Duarte cracked a smile mainly to let Félix know he could move on with a summary of the call.

  The DEA man looked at his notes. "Our office says we can work with this dude and they'll back us up on anything we need."

  "What's his name?"

  "Colonel Lázaro Staub."

  "That's an odd Latin name."

  Félix shrugged. "Who knows where these Central Americans's come from. Panama attracts all kinds."

  "Is he aware of this Mr. Ortíz?"

  "Oh yeah. He says they've been trying to identify him for years. They think he might be a Colombian. He's bought up a lot of cops and has a bunch of lower-echelon guys who insulate him from everyone."

  "So Gastlin may be the only link to him?"

  "Looks like."

  "And this really is a big deal case?"

  "Think so." Félix leaned back in his own chair. "Looks like we got a lot of paperwork to do so we can take a trip to Panama."

  Duarte thought about it. "Won't we need someone here to take care of the load if you get it sent to the U.S.?"

  Félix nodded. "Yeah, I guess."

  "I could do that. I've been to Panama before, for training. I don't mind staying here."

  "That could make things a lot easier. Why, you don't wanna leave that fine squeeze you got?"

  Duarte didn't answer.

  "C'mon, you can admit it."

  Duarte said, "I like hanging out with her, that's all. She's funny and smart."

  "And hot."

  "I know. I know."

  "But you can't call her your girlfriend, can you?"

  "No. I don't know why."

  "Because you're a dude. We avoid labels like that."

  Duarte had to smile.

  4

  PELLY FINISHED A WHOLE ROASTED CHICKEN WITH SOME VEGETABLES at an outside table where he and the drivers could keep an eye on the vehicles. The boss was on the phone to someone in the capital and seemed preoccupied.

  The older of the two drivers said, "Pelly, you ever gonna tell us what's in the crate?"

  Pelly just shook his head. The man had been around long enough to know that he didn't like to answer the same question twice.

  A truck with laborers pulled into the lot next to the cantina and four men piled out of the back to crowd the window of the s
maller, much cheaper café next door. Three men scooted out of the truck's cab. All the men were grimy from manual labor under the unrelenting sun of Panama. The largest of the men, a giant of six-foot-three and well over three hundred pounds, stretched his thick arms, then arched his back. He had a belly, but not much of one. He glanced over at Pelly and the drivers.

  In a booming voice, he slapped one of his companions on the back and said, "José, look at that guy. He looks like a monkey."

  Pelly felt his stomach tighten. Why did a man he didn't even know have to make a comment? Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the two drivers sitting with him slowly creep back. They had seen confrontations like this before.

  The giant man yelled to one of the men at the café's window, "Get an extra banana for this boy. He looks hungry." He laughed, then watched Pelly stand to his full five-feet-eight, which made him only laugh some more, the others joining in.

  Pelly's head started to spin. He had an H &K MP-5 in the car but didn't see a need for the submachine gun. A firearm was overkill.

  The giant looked at him and said, "Hey, Monkey Boy, you forget to comb your face this morning?"

  Pelly slowly advanced on the big man. His friends must've thought he didn't need any help against someone so much smaller, but Pelly noted who was laughing.

  "Sir," Pelly said slowly, "you like to make fun of people you don't know?"

  "Look, it can speak!" The friends' laughter had slowed. They realized this was dangerous country and that taunting the wrong man could result in gunfire.

  Pelly thought about explaining hypertrichosis and its genetic origins, but doubted it would enlighten any of these bullies. He gave a good glare to the others and saw that all but two were backing away. He approached the three remaining men slowly, keeping his eyes on the big man in the middle but aware of exactly how the other two were standing. He stopped about three feet from them, just outside the long reach of the big man, looked up into his face and set his left leg back as if he were going to kick him.

  Now the man looked a little uneasy, like most bullies when their bluff is called.

  Pelly said, "I don't like people making fun of me." He let his eyes slip to the right to check the man there, and then to the left. "I think you owe me…" But he didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he launched a vicious front kick with his poised left leg to the man on the left side, connecting directly on his hip girder and feeling the man's leg pop out of its socket. Before the man could collapse to the ground, screaming, Pelly had his left foot planted and his right twisting into a round kick, shattering the other man's ribs. He waited until both men were clearly down and out of the fight and the others had moved back even farther.

  Then he stood silently and watched as the giant started to tremble slightly. Pelly balled his fist.

  The big man said, "Look, I think you misunderstood me."

  "I thought you said I looked like a monkey."

  "No, no, that wasn't what I meant."

  Pelly didn't answer. Instead he lifted his fist, drawing the man's hands up to block the punch and instead delivered a crushing round kick to the man's knee. He tumbled like a redwood.

  As the giant sprawled on the ground, Pelly stomped on the man's outstretched good leg, crushing that kneecap from another angle.

  The man started to cry for his friends to help, but no one was anxious to defend the loudmouth.

  Pelly stepped around and grabbed the man's hand, then bent it back and fell on his arm so that his elbow snapped. He repeated the action on the other arm.

  The hairy young man stood up, looking down at the man whose limbs now all seemed to be pointing in the wrong direction. He glanced around at the others, who shrank back from his stare.

  He heard his name and looked toward the Cadillac.

  His boss said, "Pelly, let's go."

  As Pelly stomped back toward the car, he saw the look on the men's faces in the truck. He knew they'd never make fun of him and neither would all the men they would tell.

  Once inside the SUV, his boss said, "That sort of activity draws too much attention to us. We have an important task."

  Pelly turned and looked at him. He wanted to ask if his boss thought whipping half-naked women didn't draw attention, too, but decided he liked his job. Maybe one day he'd address these issues with him.

  ***

  It was almost sundown when Pelly watched the two men settle the crate into the front of a twenty-foot cargo container, secure the false wall and then lug in over fifty bales of compacted pot. The heavy hand truck strained under the stress of some of the bales. As with any imprecise and unregulated industry, the weight of each bale could vary from three to five hundred pounds. They had plenty, so they usually threw in a little extra to avoid complaints. Much of their success was based on staying out of confrontations. Of course, the boss went a long way toward eliminating problems before they arose.

  Pelly saw him approach from the parked Cadillac SUV where he'd been on his cell phone.

  "This looks better and better, Pelly." He looked at the men working. "How much longer?"

  Pelly shrugged, "Two more bales."

  "You want to, or should I?"

  Pelly frowned. "Is it really necessary, boss? These two are good workers. They have no idea what's in the crate."

  "Pelly, you let me worry about the security and just focus on doing what I say. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir," he said, watching as the men shoved the big doors to the container closed. Without a word, his boss walked toward them slowly. He had his hand on the grip of a Walther P-38 behind his back.

  Pelly shook his head, knowing that there was no real reason to kill these men, but that never stopped the boss from doing it. At least this time he wasn't torturing the men before they were killed. That seemed to be their only reward for being decent, hardworking employees.

  The men turned, pleased that the big boss was apparently coming to thank them for their hard work. The first man, a twenty-five-year-old farm boy from Bocas del Toros never knew what was coming before the bullet to his face stopped him cold. The other man, a much older Colombian, had the time and presence of mind to take a step back, but the instinctive movement only seemed to enrage the boss, who, instead of shooting him in the head, put a nine-millimeter round into each of the man's knees.

  The terrified worker dropped straight to the ground, his legs unable to support his large torso.

  The boss walked up to him and put a bullet in the man's groin.

  Pelly shook his head. This did nothing for the business operations-in fact, now Pelly would have to explain to anybody who knew them how the two workers had disappeared. He decided to say they were informers for the national police, and he'd had to make an example of them. Maybe he could salvage some benefit from this senseless behavior.

  Pelly could only shake his head again as he watched the boss stand over the screaming, squirming man and slowly pump bullets into other nonfatal parts of his body while the man bled to death.

  ***

  William "Ike" Floyd answered the pay phone off Forty-second Street on the first ring. It was eleven o'clock on a Wednesday night in Omaha, and he knew who it was.

  "Yeah?" He wasn't tentative; he wanted to show this guy he wasn't afraid.

  "William?"

  "It's me, Mr. Ortíz. And call me Ike." He'd call Ortíz by his first name, too, if he knew it. Besides, this guy was a heavy hitter, even if his beaner accent made him sound very un-American.

  The deep voice with the Latin inflection said, "It looks as if everything is in order. You will want to find a contact at the port in New Orleans or perhaps Galveston. That is where I will suggest as a point of entry."

  "Think you can just waltz it right though?"

  "I'll have some help, but it will still need to be off-loaded."

  "I'll get it done."

  "Good, good. I will have to set up two days a week to call you."

  "Can we make it earlier? I don't like waiting out here by a pay phone t
his late."

  "Surely the leader of a group like yours is not frightened?"

  "You ever seen the wild animals that roam the streets in Omaha? Even the cops don't like to fuck with these niggers."

  "Regardless, I will need to be able to reach you both Wednesday and Sunday nights. At the same hour." There was a silence on the overseas line, then he added, "Our mission is too important to be threatened by minor inconveniences. Do you not agree?"

  "I guess."

  "Very well. I will inform you of our progress."

  The line went dead, and Ike, pissed off and tired, slammed down the receiver as the dry wind kicked up off the plains. He was close to his apartment on Fortieth Street, well away from any of the neighborhoods he was bitching about, but he didn't want this beaner thinking it was too easy to wait by a pay phone at eleven at night.

  He turned and started to walk toward his building, thinking about what they had in mind. This was big. Bigger than anything he'd ever done, and, considering what else he had been involved in, that was saying something. This time no one had anything on him. He wasn't talking to the cops and wasn't facing any charges. This was gonna be straight and decisive. He would be proud to be known as the man who changed America. No matter how many died to save it.

  5

  DUARTE LIKED HAVING FÉLIX WORK OUT OF THE ATF OFFICE sometimes because it made him feel as if the two agencies were on a more equal footing. The DEA was so much larger and better funded, though, since the 9/11 attacks, it had become somewhat of a forgotten agency. As the public focused on terrorism, narcotics had taken a backseat. Few people realized the connection between the two crimes, and how much of a vital link the DEA had been in the intelligence machine.

  B. L. Gastlin sat at a small table in Duarte's office. They had not handcuffed him, even though he was only temporarily out of jail. They had checked him out earlier in the day to make more undercover phone calls to Ortíz.