Deep Dirty Truth

by Steph Broadribb

  39

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd, 12:44

  There’s no direct train from Tallahassee to Miami. The closest stop on the line is Jacksonville, but there’s no trains leaving Tallahassee going there either. So we’re stuck, trapped without a ride and with no idea if it was Carly or the mob guys who got shot in the apartment.

  ‘We could take a Greyhound…’ North says.

  We’re standing opposite the bus depot, figuring it’s easier to hide in a crowd. There’s a line for the pretzel stand a few yards away, and plenty of folks hurrying around us, some with luggage, some without. All of them seem to know how to get to where they’re heading.

  I shake my head. Keep my gaze along the street, looking out for the silver Ford that was following us before. ‘The route takes us back through Missingdon, we can’t risk it. If there are roadblocks still in place they’ll be around there for sure.’

  ‘So what? How do we get back across state?’

  Unzipping my go bag, I flick through the roll of dollars, working out how much I’ve got left. ‘We take a cab to Jacksonville.’

  North looks unconvinced. ‘And what about the road blocks?’

  ‘We hope they haven’t fixed them that close to the state line in Georgia. They’re expecting us to head back to Miami, not go east.’

  ‘True.’ He nods. Looks thoughtful. ‘Could work.’

  ‘So let’s get it done.’

  I start walking towards the taxi rank a few hundred yards up the street. North falls in step beside me. Neither of us speak, our thoughts on the chaos left behind in Carly’s apartment building and the chaos we’re no doubt heading towards in Miami. We have our new identities, sure, and look different enough to fool a casual observer, but with Luciano’s men and the Feds on our tail, I don’t fancy our chances of making it to Miami without another problem.

  The cab ride takes more than two hours and almost a couple of hundred bucks. North falls asleep about a half-hour into it. I don’t. I keep watching the road, scanning the vehicles around us for the silver Ford. Mindful that Luciano seems hell-bent on stopping me and North making it back to Miami.

  As we get into Jacksonville I nudge North awake.

  He flinches, his right hand reaching for his weapon.

  ‘Steady. It’s just me.’

  He blinks. Relaxes. ‘We there?’

  ‘Almost.’ Looking ahead, I notice the driver eyeballing North kind of strange and hope to hell we’ve not been made. He’s been a silent driver, and for that I’ve been grateful, but his fondness for texting while driving has made me a little anxious.

  The driver clears his throat. ‘Whereabouts you want me to take you?’ He sounds tense.

  I meet his gaze and give him what I hope is a friendly smile. ‘Be a doll and drop us at the trailer park on New Kings Road would you?’

  He looks away, back to the road. ‘No problem.’

  North doesn’t say anything about the changed location. While he was sleeping I checked out the local area. The trailer park is a short walk from the station, but if Luciano’s men or the FBI get to the driver later, at least he can’t tell them for sure that we got on a train.

  Aside from the trailer park the area is real industrial. The places along the streets are transportation depots, food-processing warehouses and courier services. I pay the driver and we get out. There’s no sidewalk here, just a strip of yellowing grass along the edge of the highway. As the cab pulls back into the traffic, I sling my go bag over my shoulder and wince.

  North looks concerned. ‘Arm hurting?’

  ‘It’s fine. I could do with some water is all.’

  He nods, and we walk along the dusty grass towards the turning for Clifford Lane. Taking a left onto it, we follow the road along, past the vast parking lot, and freight storage area opposite, and along to the station.

  While North goes to check the train schedule, I go get us some tickets. Ignoring the counter service, I head straight to one of the automated ticket machines. It takes a while to feed the bills into the machine, but it’s a whole lot less risky than getting up close with a ticket teller.

  It costs a little under a hundred and fifty bucks for the pair of tickets. I pick up a couple of bottles of water and ham and cheese subs from the vending machine nearby, and put the lot into my carryall. My roll of dollars is a damn sight slimmer than it was a couple of days ago.

  I shiver. Get the feeling that I’m being watched.

  Glancing around, I check whether there’s anyone who has eyes on me, but see no one. I can’t shake the feeling, but there’s nothing to be done about it.

  Crossing the concourse, I join up with North. ‘You got any cash on you?’

  ‘Some; maybe two hundred bucks.’

  That’s something at least. ‘Good, because I’m running low and we’ve still got a load of miles to cover.’

  He looks real concerned. Both of us know there’s no guarantee we’re going to have enough cash to get us where we need be. ‘The next train is in ten minutes,’ he says. ‘Takes a little under nine hours to get to Miami.’

  Right now nine hours feels like a lifetime.

  We start up the steps to cross over the line to the platform. Halfway up, as we move around the twist, I halt abruptly. My breath catches in my throat and I shoot my arm out to make North stop.

  He turns, confused. ‘What the—?’

  ‘Look.’ I nod down, across the tracks, towards the platform. ‘Feds. No doubt.’

  There are at least three of them, spaced out along the platform. Dark suits, shades. All of them wearing the same look of intense concentration. At the furthest end, taller than the rest, his movie-star looks making him stand up from the crowd, I spot the lead agent who was interviewed on the news channel: Jackson Peters.

  In that moment I know for sure that they’re here for us.

  Damn my misplaced confidence in our disguises. Different as we look, sitting in a car for two hours is a long time and gives a person plenty of chances to study their passengers. The damn driver and his texts; he must have been tipping off the Feds, texting the number the news channels were broadcasting. Trying to be the hero. Nearly two hundred bucks that ride cost, and he still sold us out.

  We can’t get onto the platform to catch the train. We can’t stay here.

  Every which way, we’re screwed.

  40

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd, 15:28

  We backtrack down the steps. My mind is whirring, thinking on what our next move should be. It makes no kind of sense that Special Agent Peters would put all his resources into waiting on the platform, yet if they’re in the foyer, as I figure they will be, I don’t get why they didn’t grab us when we walked in.

  ‘The cab driver must have ratted us out,’ North says. ‘We need another plan.’

  ‘Yeah, no shit. But what?’

  ‘Get a car, hope we can skirt the roadblocks?’

  It might be our only shot, but it sure as hell is risky. We’d have to switch up our vehicles regularly to stand any kind of chance. ‘Steal something? I guess it could work.’

  North shakes his head. ‘A rental is lower risk.’

  True. But we’d be leaving a paper trail – names and photos on file in the rental office. Just because Jackson Peters knew where we’d be, it doesn’t mean he knew our fake names; we didn’t tell the driver them. ‘You think our IDs will work?’

  ‘They’re legit. Proper legends. Social security, banking records, the whole nine yards.’

  ‘Good.’ I’m impressed. I make my decision. ‘So we take a rental then.’

  North keeps his focus on the concourse ahead. ‘Agreed.’

  As we reach the bottom of the steps, I scan the people around us, alert for anyone who could be an agent. My heartbeat’s banging like a screen door in a hurricane.

  ‘Nice hair.’ A voice murmurs from behind us. ‘Get in here, it’s a camera blind spot.’

  I recognise the Kentucky drawl. Turn in the direction of the voice.<
br />
  He’s skulking in the shadow of the stairwell. ‘Monroe, what the—?’

  ‘Get in here now.’ There’s stress in his tone and his body language. ‘We don’t have long.’

  Still confused, I gesture at North to follow, and we move towards Monroe. ‘How are you even here?’

  ‘Got myself onto Peters’ detail, didn’t I.’

  As I face Monroe, North stands with his back to me, still scanning the concourse for Feds. We’re sitting ducks here. We need to get gone.

  ‘Why?’ I hiss at Monroe.

  Monroe takes hold of my arm, trying to pull me further away from North. His voice is an urgent whisper. ‘You need to come with me now.’

  I dig my heels in. Refuse to budge. ‘And North?’

  Monroe gives a small shake of his head. ‘I can’t work miracles. Jackson needs his trophy.’

  ‘That’s too bad, because right now, we come as a pair.’

  ‘Don’t try pushing me, Lori. It isn’t going to happen.’

  ‘I hate to break up your reunion or whatever this is.’ North turns to face us, his expression grim. ‘But there’s a bunch of Feds out there looking for us, so we need to move.’

  Monroe bristles. ‘Yeah, I know. I’m one of them.’

  ‘You’re what?’ North looks from Monroe to me. Clenching his fists, he steps closer to Monroe. Looks all set to punch him. ‘What the hell is this?’

  I put my hands out towards North as if quieting an anxious mustang. ‘It’s okay, North. Calm down.’

  Monroe scowls at North. ‘You should give yourself up.’

  I turn on him. ‘You want North to wave a white flag, but you’ll take me out of here?’

  ‘It’s nothing personal,’ Monroe to North. He looks back at me. ‘I just have to protect my asset.’

  So that’s what I am to him now: an asset. He needs me to make his plans to take down the Chicago mobsters work, and he’s too invested in this long game to let Jackson Peters get a bite at me. ‘Like I said, you get both of us, or neither.’

  Monroe shakes his head. ‘Jackson won’t give up. He needs something – one of you. And that needs to be North.’

  North looks real twitchy.

  I hold Monroe’s gaze. Saying nothing.

  ‘Goddamn you’re stubborn.’ Monroe looks pissed. He blows out hard. Checks his watch. ‘Okay. So look, there’s a freight train pulling out on the other line in two minutes. If you’re sticking together, you should be on it. That’s the best I can do.’

  ‘Where’s it heading?’ North asks.

  ‘Port Miami.’ Monroe speaks through gritted teeth. His jaw is tight and there’s anger in his eyes. ‘Jackson reckons that’s the direction you’re heading in anyways. Is he right?’

  ‘Best you don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘You’re making a mistake.’ Monroe steps closer to me. ‘Remember I’m a friend, Lori. And you’ve not got many who can help you right now.’

  I think of the bodies left in my wake since Special Agent Alex Monroe became my friend. And the fact he’s willing to sell out another agent’s case for a win on his own. He’s not about justice. He just plays that card when it suits his own needs. One thing’s for sure, if he is a friend, I’m real glad I don’t have no others like him.

  Leaving Monroe spitting feathers, we duck off the concourse through the emergency exit near the stairs and hurry away from the main platforms, towards the freight line. It’s quieter away from the main station building, but I know we’re likely being caught by CCTV cameras. I just hope no one is paying the freight side of business too much attention right now.

  Alert for anyone looking like a Fed, we skirt the low-rise building around the freight area and head towards the loading bay. I stay quiet, keeping on my toes to prevent my high heels from knocking on the ground. The red and yellow freight train, its engines already running, is in the siding just as Monroe said it would be. There are a few small cargo carriages behind the engine, then the rest of the train is made up of shipping containers. I spot a few people on the loading ramp; guys in fluorescent tabards, hauling boxes into the first cargo carriage.

  I gesture to the rear of the train. ‘We need to get around back. Find somewhere to get inside without them seeing.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Staying low, eyes on the loading guys, we use the stacks of now-empty crates and wooden pallets on the platform to shield us as we run closer to the train. When the men are inside the carriage we hotfoot towards the train.

  As we reach the end of one of the cargo carriages, I hear doors being pulled shut higher up the train. Bolts are being pushed home. Our two minutes must be up. The train is ready to leave.

  I look at North. ‘You ready to do this?’

  He answers by leaping up onto the back of the carriage and sliding open one of the doors a few feet. He peers inside before turning back to me and holding out his hand. ‘It’s clear.’

  I pass him my go bag, and jump up into the carriage beside him.

  As he slides the door closed behind me, the train begins to move off. I stand braced for shouting, for the Feds to stop the train and start searching. But it doesn’t happen, there’s no shouting and we keep moving.

  As the train picks up speed, I feel my heart rate begin to steady. Closing my eyes, I sink down until I’m sitting on the floor. It’ll take us near on nine hours to reach Port Miami.

  For now, at least, we’re on our way.

  41

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd, 16:23

  It’s been almost an hour, but I still can’t breath easy. I’ve changed out of the pant suit and back into my own clothes, relieved to swap spike heels for cowboy boots, but when I searched in my go bag for the antibiotics Carly gave me, I realised, in the rush of our escape, I’d left them on the kitchen countertop. My arm’s sore, but it doesn’t feel too bad right now. Without antibiotics I don’t know how long that’ll last.

  The noise of the wheels against the tracks seem much louder in the no-frills, no-comforts carriage. Stacks of crates tower around us, while the rest of the carriage is filled with pallets of machinery that jingles and knocks with the movement of the train.

  That Monroe knows where we are doesn’t make me feel too great. He’s helped us, sure, but he’s out for himself. If something changes, and a better deal for him is to sell us out, I have no doubt that he’ll do it in a heartbeat. I can’t fail, though. JT and Dakota are depending on me making this right, getting the price off our heads.

  As well as Monroe, there’s something more eating at me, and I need to discuss it with North.

  ‘I think we’re heading towards a problem.’

  ‘Guessed that, because you got a face on you.’

  I frown. ‘A face?’

  ‘Like a cougar that tried taking a bite out a porcupine.’

  I narrow my eyes. Feel pissed at North. I’ve saved his ass more than once in the last couple of days, and I could do with less of his lip. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘For sure.’

  Damn. At times the man is insufferable. ‘Look, I don’t think we should go as far as Port Miami. If Special Agent Peters got tipped off we were heading to Miami by train, once he realises we aren’t on the passenger service it’s only a short leap for him to figure out we might have skipped over to the haulage track. We got a head start for now but, even if he doesn’t try to stop us en route, I figure he’ll have men waiting in Miami.’

  North looks grim as he thinks on what I’ve said. We pass over a set of points, and the door, loose on its flip catch, rattles harder.

  He nods his head. ‘Yeah. It makes sense. Jackson Peters is obviously far from stupid. Even though he doesn’t know how we’re travelling, he’s guessed where we’re heading. He’ll have agents waiting to apprehend us in all the transport hubs in Miami, no question.’

  Standing, I step over to the nearest stack of crates. The shipping notices on them give their destinations: Fort Pierce, Fort Lauderdale, Miami, Port Miami. ‘So we get off a few stop
s before Port Miami, get a rental vehicle and make our way to the compound from there.’

  North says nothing as he gets up and joins me by the crates. He looks over the shipping documents. ‘We should get off at Fort Lauderdale and head to the wild country. That’s where the Old Man is.’

  ‘But I thought you said we needed to go to the compound?’

  North shakes his head. ‘The way things are going we’ll never get close. You said it yourself: the Feds are anticipating that’s our move. With Luciano hell-bent on getting to us, too, we’ll stand no chance of getting in, even if Peters doesn’t catch us first.’

  ‘So how do we find the Old Man?’

  ‘I know where he’ll be.’

  ‘And then what?’

  North pats the messenger bag with the contents of the safety-deposit box inside. ‘I show him my insurance policy.’

  It makes sense – trying to get to the Old Man before he gets home to his Miami compound. But I feel a gnawing dread at the thought of which ‘wild country’ North means. So I ask him the question. ‘Where is this wild country the Old Man takes his pilgrimage to?’

  North doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Everglades City.’

  Despite the humidity, I feel a chill up my spine and shiver. Memories whirl in my mind: Dakota screaming; JT out cold; a sinking boat; a rifle butt jabbed into my ribs; blood in the water as gators feast on human bodies.

  The last time I visited the Everglades I damn near died.

  42

  SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22nd, 16:29

  They’ve had more than twenty-four trouble free hours at sea, but they still have to be vigilant. JT checks his cellphone again, but there’s no signal. Red has said they’re too far from shore. JT hates it. He hasn’t spoken to Lori in a day and a half. He knows she’s tough, at the top of her game, but he wishes he knew how she was doing. When they last spoke he got the feeling she was keeping something from him about the situation with North.