Afterburn: A Kenzie Gilmore Thriller

by BIBA PEARCE

  When they’d walked off toward the docks, he glanced at his watch. If they were going to the port, they wouldn’t be back for a good 10 minutes. Time to poke around.

  Reid approached the door out of which the two men had come. It was locked. Taking out the lock-picking kit he’d brought with him, he went to work. Within a minute, he was inside.

  He was in a small, dark corridor. The only window, the one he’d looked through before, was small and grimy.

  There were two doors. One right in front of him and another at the end of the corridor. He chose door number one and cracked it open. This was the warehouse. It was large and mostly unused. There were a few machines for lifting and storing containers, but not much else.

  Ducking back into the corridor, he approached door number two and turned the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Once again, he went to work on the lock. This one was trickier. Finally, he felt it give and pushed open the door.

  The office was dark on account of the blinds being down, so he switched on the light. At first glance, it looked neat and organized. Everything had a place. A desk stood under the window, clear of clutter. No paperwork or used coffee cups. One wall was lined with shelves filled with rows of files. There was a filing cabinet on the other side, and above it a picture of an old-fashioned ship riding the high seas.

  A typical warehouse operator’s office.

  He inspected the files. Regal Holdings. Orders, delivery notes, invoices. Everything looked legit.

  He approached the desk. Was this Torres’s office? Was he running the company, using it as a front to manage the cartel’s illegal imports? After the bust that had gone south a year and a half ago, Lopez and Torres had vanished, presumed to have gone back to Mexico to regroup.

  Now they were back and operational again.

  There was no laptop or computer, so Reid began opening drawers. There were lists of invoices, shipping inventories, container numbers, and schedules. He took pictures of them all on his phone. He’d study them later when he had time.

  It was the same as the back office in the bar they’d raided, where Bianca had died. Tidy, orderly, methodical. All the hallmarks of Torres.

  The Cuban had run the cartel’s Miami interests with an iron fist. He seldom made mistakes. Even when they’d raided the bar that fateful day, they hadn’t had enough to hold him. It was one of the reason’s Bianca had stayed under.

  “We need more, Reid. We need actual proof of a shipment.”

  Is that why she’d been killed in his office? She’d found something?

  A shiver ran down his spine. Bianca had done well to break through Torres’s defenses, but she was a beautiful woman. Sexy. Provocative. She’d worked her way up through Vice and was no stranger to going undercover in a short skirt and tight top.

  He grimaced, thinking of her at his mercy.

  “He doesn’t scare me,” she’d told Reid once. “He’s all bark and no bite.”

  Well, it was his bite that had gotten her in the end.

  In the bottom right-hand drawer, he found a black notebook. He flicked through it, but it was just scribbles. Docking times, order numbers, ship names. He took a couple more pictures just in case, then put it back where he’d found it.

  Time was ticking by. He’d been inside for over five minutes.

  He pulled open the filing cabinet. Again, everything was ordered alphabetically. He had no doubt these were legit company records. Torres wouldn’t be so stupid as to leave incriminating evidence lying around for anyone with a warrant to find.

  That would be stashed in a safe somewhere or hidden in a place that wasn’t easy to find.

  His gaze fell on the picture of the old ship.

  Moving quietly across the office, he took the painting down.

  Bingo.

  It was a heavy-duty safe. Old school. Without a block of C4, he had no way of opening it. He put the painting back.

  Reid took one last look around and was about to exit the room when he heard the side door open.

  Shit, they were back.

  He flipped the light off and hid behind the door. Had they seen it? There was quite a big gap under the door.

  Footsteps approaching.

  Hurriedly, he reached out and turned the latch. The lock clicked into place. There was a knock.

  “Boss, are you in there?”

  Reid didn’t reply. Pulse racing, he glanced around for a way to escape. He sure as hell couldn’t go out the way he’d come in.

  He pulled up the blinds, inspecting the windows. They were old and rusted, but he might be able to open them.

  “Hello? Boss is that you?” came the voice again.

  He grunted as he swiveled the tarnished metal lever. It hadn’t been used in years. Finally, it gave, and the lock loosened. He pushed the window outwards. It was stiff and groaned in protest, but opened enough for him to climb out.

  Just.

  He grabbed Torres’s desk chair and positioned it underneath, then jumped up and swung a leg over. It wouldn’t be long before the guards figured out he was opening a window and came around the back.

  He heard a quick, deep interchange as they discussed what to do, then there was a thud as a shoulder pummeled into the door. They were going to break it down. Another thrust and the door gave a little more. One more burst would do it.

  Reid swung his other leg over and jumped down onto the ground outside, scraping his arm as he went.

  Shit.

  He couldn’t leave his DNA there. They might call the police to report the break in. A place like this, though, he seriously doubted it, but he couldn’t take any chances.

  He used his sleeve to wipe down the frame. A forensic team would still get his skin cells off it if they knew where to look, but to the naked eye, it appeared spotless.

  There was a combined shout as the door came splintering off its hinges and landed on the office floor.

  Reid took off along the wall at a sprint. He didn’t look back. By the time the men got to the window, he’d rounded the corner and was headed for the container yard. They’d never find him there.

  He zigzagged through the jungle of containers, trying to put as much distance between himself and the warehouse as possible. There was shouting as the two men came after him, but it faded out after a while, and he figured they’d given up. This was one of the biggest container yards in the state. Finding him would be impossible.

  They’d go back and look at the security footage, except he wasn’t on that either. Then they’d report the break-in to their boss. Torres wouldn’t be happy, but with no laptop and an unbreakable safe, he didn't have anything to worry about.

  One thing was for sure, though. The Morales cartel was back in business, and they were operating out of The Port of Miami.

  21

  Kenzie swung in the hammock on Reid’s deck and waited for him to get home. The patio doors were locked, but she was content to lie here thinking, listening to the soundtrack of the swamp.

  She must have dozed off, because she woke with a start as a deep voice said, “Kenzie, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, God. Sorry, I fell asleep. I was up late writing my article.”

  He frowned. “On Mimi Silverton?”

  “Yeah, have you seen it? It’s in today’s paper.”

  “I haven’t had a chance.”

  She got off the hammock. “My editor, Keith, is happy with it. We’re the first to report on it in so much detail.” At his suspicious glance, she raised a hand. “Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything that would compromise the case.”

  “I hope not,” he muttered. “Want a beer?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  She followed him inside. “So, what’s been happening? Have you found out Fernández’s whereabouts?”

  “No, he’s in the wind. His car was registered to the company at the same address. I did see them load the furniture and equipment into a van in the middle of the night, though. Stealthy job. In and out in under 20 minutes.”
/>   “Professionals,” she said.

  He nodded. “Fernández wasn’t there.”

  “Any idea who they were?” she asked.

  “The van was hired from a company called New Horizons. The owner said he rented the van to a guy called Phoenix Benson. When I spoke to Benson, he had no knowledge of it.”

  “Was he lying?”

  “I don’t think so. He said he’d lost his wallet a couple of days ago. Couldn’t understand why anyone would hire a moving van with his ID. Funny thing is, he works at the AF Investments’ building.”

  “It’s very suspicious,” Kenzie mused. “Are you sure he wasn’t involved?”

  “Ryan’s checking him out now.” At her quizzical look, he elaborated. “Ryan’s a rookie detective at the precinct. She’s helping me out.”

  “She?” Kenzie didn’t mean to sound surprised. It was just that Ryan was a boy’s name.

  “Yeah, I don’t know her first name. Everyone just calls her Ryan.”

  “Ah.”

  There was a pause.

  “If this security guard’s wallet was stolen to hire the van, then we have no way of tracking them.”

  “Dead end.” Reid sank into a wicker chair. It creaked under his weight. “They’ll lie low for a few months, then pop up somewhere else under a new name.”

  “And start scamming people again?” Kenzie finished.

  He gave a terse nod.

  She scowled. “I wish there was a way of stopping them. It’s not right. Why don’t the authorities do something?”

  “Do what? Nobody’s complained. There’s no evidence of fraudulent activity. All the victims think their money is safe and sound and earning interest.”

  “Until it doesn’t,” Kenzie said.

  “Exactly, and that’s when they pack up, move out, and start again. We just spurred them on with our inquiry.”

  “I could write an article on them,” she said. “I’ll warn people to watch out for them. Maybe I’ll make it a general piece on wire fraud.”

  “You do realize they’re probably laundering money for the cartel. If that’s the case, we’re messing with some very dangerous people. You don’t want to draw any attention. You’ll be putting yourself in their sights. Also, if you go to print with an article like that, it could scare them off.”

  “The cartel, you mean?”

  “Yeah, they’ll go elsewhere to get their money cleaned. Then we’ll have lost our only link to them.”

  “So, you want me to keep quiet until we have, what? The cartel in custody? You know that’s never going to happen.”

  “No, just until I figure out what Torres was doing there, and what role AF Investments plays in the drug trafficking.”

  “This is about Torres, isn’t it?” Kenzie watched him from over the rim of her beer bottle. “It’s not about Natalia anymore. You want to find him and make him pay for what he did to your undercover agent.”

  “Of course it's about Natalia. That’s why I’m back on the force, to find her killer.” He stared at his beer bottle. “But you’re right, I do want to find Torres. He’s not going to get away with what he’s done.”

  She believed him.

  It was then she noticed the scratch on his arm. “What happened?”

  “Huh?”

  “To your arm. You’re bleeding.”

  “Oh, that. I must have scratched myself somewhere.”

  Hmm. Why did she get the feeling he wasn’t being completely honest with her? Still, she didn’t push.

  “What’s next on Natalia’s investigation?”

  He seemed relieved at the change in subject. “CCTV backed up both Gabriella Vincent and Bella Montague’s statements. From what I saw, neither went back to the club that night.”

  “Okay, if we rule them out, it’s looking more and more like Fernández or his henchman were responsible.”

  “The thing that bothers me about that,” said Reid, “is how did they know about the party?”

  “More importantly, how did they know Natalia would leave and go back to her room?” added Kenzie.

  “They must have had a mole.” Reid shook his head. “It’s the only solution.”

  “Who?” Kenzie spread her hands. “We’ve been through that footage a dozen times. No one spiked her drink, no one went near her other than her husband, Bella, and Gabriella.”

  Reid frowned. “We must have missed something.”

  “I’ll ask Snake to take another look, see if there’s anyone he doesn’t recognize.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Reid perked up. “Good thinking.”

  She shrugged. “It’s better than doing nothing. In the meantime, tell me more about this guard that had his ID stolen.”

  The next morning, Kenzie put on her gym outfit and drove to South Beach. Phoenix Benson thought his wallet had been stolen at a gym called Progressive Overload.

  She walked inside and froze.

  Oh crap.

  This was not the sort of establishment that offered Pilates and hot yoga. In fact, the only equipment she could see were rows and rows of free weights and she was surrounded by giants with unreal bodies in vests that looked like they’d been spray-painted on.

  Gulping, she ignored the pointed stares and made for the reception desk.

  “Hi there.” She gave the woman her friendliest smile, although she, too, looked like she could crush watermelons under her armpits. “I’m looking for this man. Have you seen him?”

  She held up her phone. Reid had sent her a picture of Fernández’s henchman, an Eastern European ex-military operator called Ivan Petrovitch.

  “Who wants to know?”

  She flashed her press card. “I’m investigating an incident that took place near his place of work last week, and I wanted to ask him a few questions.”

  The woman’s gaze wavered. She knew him.

  “He said I’d be able to find him here,” she lied. The words fell seamlessly from her lips.

  The woman hesitated, then said, “Ivan isn’t here yet.”

  “But he’ll be in later?” Kenzie asked.

  “He usually comes in around seven.”

  Kenzie grinned. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

  Yes!

  She was getting somewhere. Her hunch had been right. Ivan had stolen Phoenix Benson’s wallet at the gym, then used his ID to hire the van. Any ID would do, but by targeting someone who worked at the same building, they were casting suspicion on him.

  Now she had a link to Fernández.

  She left the gym and walked up the road to a nearby café. She ordered a coffee and thought for a moment. Should she update Reid? Except she hadn’t actually seen Ivan yet. He might not even make an appearance, in which case there was no point in bothering Reid with it.

  As she watched the beachgoers sunning themselves on the blinding white sand, Kenzie made a decision. She’d come back tonight and wait for Ivan. Once she had eyes on him, she’d contact Reid. He’d be home by then. When Ivan finished his workout, they could tail him to wherever he was staying. He might lead them to Fernández.

  22

  Reid glanced up as Ortega’s team strutted into the precinct holding a man in cuffs. They laughed and joked, showing off their catch. Ortega caught his eye and smirked.

  “They got him,” murmured Ryan, standing beside his desk. “Yesterday’s bust was called off at the last minute, so they went in today. Apparently, this guy works for The Kings.”

  Reid studied the perp. A stocky, dark-haired Latino in ripped jeans, a designer T-shirt, new sneakers, and an expensive watch. Vicious gang tattoos covered his forearms. He couldn’t have looked more like a gang banger if he’d tried. He had the arrogant swagger of a man who knows he holds all the cards.

  “He’s going to cut a deal,” Reid mumbled.

  Ryan shot him a surprised glance. “How’d you know?”

  “Look at him. The cocky son of a bitch knows he has information that we want. He knows we’ll strike a deal to get
to García.”

  Matt Garcia. Leader of The Kings and an all-round badass with an itchy trigger finger.

  Ryan stared at the gangster. He even had the audacity to shoot her a lecherous grin as he walked past. She turned away.

  “I hope they’re not too lenient on him.”

  “Witness protection, I’d guess.” Reid crinkled his nose like he’d smelled something bad. “Which is more than he deserves.”

  Ryan shook her head, then went back to her desk.

  Reid watched the interrogation on the television screen in the viewing room. Ortega was probing the gangster, whose name was David Navarro, but he wasn’t cooperating. His lawyer eventually leaned forward. “My client is willing to tell you what you want to know, if you’ll protect him.”

  “Here it comes,” mumbled Reid.

  Ortega laughed, trying to call his bluff. “If he doesn’t talk, he’ll be going to jail for a long time.”

  “On what charge? Possession? Intent to supply? Please, detective. We all know he’ll be out in five years.”

  Ortega shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. The lawyer was right. They didn’t have a lot to go on. If they wanted to bring down the entire gang and end the street war that had broken out, they needed to know what he knew.

  “What did you have in mind?” Ortega asked.

  The lawyer smiled.

  Bastard.

  Reid turned away. The deal would take some time to negotiate. I would need signatures from the Chief of Police and various other law enforcement organizations. Only then would Navarro be willing to talk.

  As he’d thought, no burglary had been reported at the warehouse. That meant he was safe. No fingerprints or DNA to link back to him. No camera footage, either. Nothing that would send any unwelcome visitors his way.

  He breathed out. Because he wasn’t finished with Torres yet.

  Back at his desk, Reid went through all the photographs he’d taken of the documents in Torres’s study, zooming in on his phone and studying each individually.

  The company was a legitimate dock loading enterprise. It provided equipment to commercial customers in the Miami area. He saw orders for dock levelers, safety systems, industrial doors, and loading tables. It was a clever front. A way for the cartel to offload their shipments of drugs when they arrived at the Port of Miami.