Downward Dog in Miami

by Larry David Allman

  “As well it should,” he said, with lots of noise in the background. He was still on site at Palmetto. “You’ve got two serious compounds here. There’s fentanyl inside of those boxes.”

  “Whoa!” Thompson exclaimed as he pushed the speaker function on his phone. “Listen to this,” he said to Ross. “I’m with Special Agent Howard Ross. Please repeat that.”

  “You’ve got a large container of fentanyl in each box,” he said over the speakerphone, “each about twenty pounds. And that’s not the worst of it. Each box had a protective mechanism on it… with ricin!”

  “Holy shit!” Thompson and Ross exclaimed in unison.

  “Right,” the HazMat chief said. “Each one of those fentanyl blocks becomes about ten million dollars at street level. Twenty million’s sitting there. And the ricin, man, that stuff is really dangerous. Death in one minute on contact!”

  “This is now DHS Cat 1… please keep us informed, Chief. And shut down the building.”

  “On it!”

  Ross clicked off and then tapped in the number for the FBI agent in charge of the Miami Field Office. “Joe… everything just changed. Get the US Attorney immediately!”

  “With pleasure. What happened?” he asked.

  “Just get down here now. Also, locate the AG at Main Justice and the DNI. We’ve got a national security case blinking red… here in Miami… Cat 1!”

  “Be right there.”

  17

  With five minutes to go to wheels-down at our diverted destination, Miami Executive Airport (TMB), Lenny and I started packing up our stuff. I had calls to make. And Lenny had not yet shared with me the good news he had mentioned earlier. I wanted to hear that too. I tapped in Lauren’s cell, but it went to voicemail again. I left a message that we’d be there soon and emphasized for her to stay put until we arrived.

  I mentioned to Lenny that Agent Ross would be happy to learn more about Santo and Horatio and Cayman and serious money laundering. Lenny reached for his phone, tapped in Ross, and put it on speaker.

  “Where are you guys? I’m hearing some strange chatter about you!” he started.

  “We’re somewhere in Miami,” Lenny responded.

  “You know I could geolocate you… if I wanted. Were you out of the country?”

  “And you know we could discontinue our cooperation with you. You really want to do a power play now?” Lenny shot back.

  “No, not really. Listen, a lot has happened here.”

  “We know,” I cut in. “You arrested the Siroco guys.”

  “How could you know that already? It was just in the past hour,” he said.

  “We have better sources than you do, Howard,” Lenny said.

  Just then, a loud alarm sounded out of the flight deck. Co-pilot Bart opened the door and yelled to us, “Don’t worry. It’s what we discussed. We’re fine.” He quickly retreated and closed the door.

  “What was that?” Ross asked.

  “Nothing,” Lenny said. “We need to meet with you. We have what you refer to as actionable intelligence.”

  “Right away,” Ross said. He suggested that we meet at the same Italian restaurant as before in thirty minutes; we agreed without me joking about whether we’d have the same table. I was also wondering if we should give Lenore a ride there, too so she could meet with her handler for a debriefing. I still was not sure about her… but we had the insurance on tape, so it wasn’t troubling at that point.

  Lenore opened the door to the flight deck and yelled to us, “Get your seat belts on. Landing in two minutes.”

  My thoughts flashed on Lauren. Why was she not taking my calls?

  * * *

  The meeting had gone on incessantly for three hours. The Southeast Regional Vice President of Prime Mortgage and the top managers of the Miami office had been sequestered in the conference room all afternoon. Lauren, Jerry, and seven others had been forced by corporate to listen to the guy drone on and on. He had emphasized the new forms of mortgage fraud they were encountering. More importantly to the company’s bottom line, he had spent the last hour on the new types of mortgages Prime was offering, which included tricky new ways they were able to bury fees and costs in the arcana of complicated loan documents. He had not permitted a single break and had insisted that all leave their cell phones somewhere else during the meeting.

  When the session ended at five-thirty, they were all drained and would have sprinted out of the room, except that the Regional VP stood at the door and personally thanked all present, an effective blocking move.

  Lauren and Jerry walked together to their offices in the executive neighborhood on the second floor, saying nothing in the open hallway space. Lauren placed her paperwork on her desk, tucked her cell phone in her purse, placed her purse strap over her shoulder and chest like a pilgrim traveler for hands-free carrying, and headed to the restroom further down the hallway. She would check her phone for any messages after a much-needed bathroom break.

  A few minutes later, she had completed the toilet part. After adjusting the fashionable Hermes scarf she was wearing, she was washing her hands and contemplating refreshing her lipstick and makeup, when: bang! Like an ultra-loud firecracker, from downstairs. She froze. There was commotion in the lobby, then yelling and screams, then a second bang! It was even louder.

  She didn’t know what to do. Hide? Go see what happened? Help? She froze.

  Then the door banged open. A huge man in a suit and tie, with angry eyes, looked in and saw her. He had a small paper in his hand, checked it, then grunted “Berger” with tight lips and feral viciousness. He rushed to her and grabbed her by the hair. He was big, and strong. He yanked her by her hair toward the door. She tried to flow with his yanking movement to relieve the strain.

  He stopped at the door. When he opened it and looked out, she screamed, “Help!” He slammed the door shut, held her upright with his left hand, and smacked her across the face with the back of his right hand.

  “Shut up or I’ll kill you here,” he said.

  She saw stars as blackness enveloped her, then she lost control and started to fall to the floor. He yanked her up harder, got close to her, put his hand close to her face, and said, “I’ll break your face, woman, right here. Get up!” He had a thick foreign accent and smelled like he ate nothing but garlic.

  Lauren was faint and unsteady but managed to stand upright. He continued to wrench her hair to keep close control.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered, and opened the door.

  There was confusion below in the lobby. Lauren was disoriented. She tried to take a deep breath to get back her focus, but his constant yanking made it too difficult. The big man dragged her into the hallway, and she saw Jerry come out of his office at the far end. The man removed a gun from under his coat, pointed it and fired two shots, hitting Jerry somewhere on his body. He folded down onto the floor with a cry. The big man pulled her in the opposite direction, toward the stairs, hair in one hand with an iron grip, a gun in the other.

  When they got to the stairs, Lauren could see young Arthur on the couch, red blood oozed across his chest, two shots visibly ripped into him—clearly dead. Another man stood inside the entrance doors holding a gun.

  The big man started to walk down the stairs to the lobby, pulling Lauren by his side, keeping control of her. Lauren struggled to keep her balance as she took in the scene. The young guard had been killed and was splayed on the couch in the lobby. The other Sabra man guarding her, the older guy, was not visible; he was probably outside somewhere, as they had usually kept separate posts. The big man had her under control by pulling the hair from her head, and another man with a gun was at the door.

  It was a kidnapping. And the target was her!

  * * *

  Avram drove into the Prime Mortgage parking lot—and saw trouble. A man was standing at the entrance doors, looking inside and then
outside, back and forth, nervously. He was holding a gun at his side with no effort to conceal it. There was a car parked at the pathway from the parking lot into the building, with a man in the driver’s seat. Avram saw no other men.

  He slowed his car and reached for the silenced SIG Sauer which was holstered on his hip. He also had a big Glock under the seat. He made a tactical decision: the silenced weapon would give him more options. It was only .38-caliber, but it could stop a horse if shot with skill. Avram had those skills.

  He eased his car up to the front entrance and stopped nose to nose with the parked vehicle. He put it in Park, left the engine running, opened the door, and got out slowly and deliberately, keeping his eyes on the man in the car while holding his gun at his side behind his leg. He waved to the man sitting in the car and gave a friendly smile. He moved in, slowly, eyes on the man taking in every detail.

  Then it happened, fast, as these hostile situations usually did. Those who had trained for them were the victors.

  The driver raised a gun he had been holding on the seat. Avram was ready. He raised the SIG and shot, in one smooth, practiced motion. Three bullets ripped through the windshield and splattered the man’s face: all direct hits. It was silenced death.

  The man at the door was looking inside when his accomplice in the car was shredded. He turned to see where his driver was—it was too late. Avram aimed and fired three more shots from about thirty yards. His shots were true: two center mass and one in the cheek.

  As the man went down, a reflex in his hand caused his trigger finger to flex and fire his gun, an errant shot but one with a loud bang.

  Avram moved to the side of the pathway and sprinted toward the building and the door. He got to the building and crouched down, gun up at the ready position in a trained two-hand grip.

  * * *

  The loud shot from the entrance doors reverberated in the lobby. The big man had Lauren about halfway down the steps. He heard the shot and yanked Lauren to a stop. He was focused on his partner, who was standing inside at the door with his gun up in the ready position. They spoke words in Russian, foreign and guttural.

  The man at the door looked out and saw his partner lying on the ground near the door, bloodied and still. He scanned the area beyond the door and saw nothing else. He opened the door slightly. When nothing happened, he pushed the door fully open and stepped out, holding the door open with one hand and the gun held ready in the other. He never looked through the door. Big mistake.

  Lauren felt the tension in her hair subside a little. She had regained some strength and focus. The big man was watching his partner go out the door. She sensed that if she did not move her head, he would not focus on her. She held her head steady to release the tension of his grip on her hair, fingered the clasp on her purse, and opened it. The big man was looking toward his partner at the door.

  Avram shot directly through the glass entrance doors, three taps, all direct hits. The man went down.

  From the stairs, the big man saw the glass door explode and bullet rip into his partner, who was down and would not be getting up.

  Lauren found the small Ruger in her purse, cradled her hand around the small handle, and tried to flick off the safety. Was it stuck? She tried again, pushed harder with her thumb, and it moved.

  The big man was still fixated on what had happened at the door; both of his accomplices were lying on the ground, both very dead, each surrounded by shards of broken glass.

  Lauren steeled herself and brought the gun up and out of the purse and close to her body. Gripping the small gun with one hand, she pointed it, pulled the trigger, and shot the big man in the side of his chest. She kept firing without thought into his chest until the mag was empty: six shots from pure reflex; all direct, close-in hits to his mid-body.

  For a few moments, the man just looked at her without moving, his eyes wide as seashells, as if the bullets had had no effect on him. After the eternity of a few seconds, the big man released her hair, dropped the gun, fell to his knees, and rolled down the steps.

  Lauren took a deep breath to get oxygen back in her body, then, straining to keep her balance and stability, lifted her legs and feet to climb back up the steps. She waited at the top of the stairs to see if anything else was coming, finally taking in some gulps of air. After a few seconds and no more apparent threats, she placed the gun back in her purse and moved deliberately down the hallway to Jerry, who was sitting on the floor, against a wall, bleeding heavily from a leg wound to his thigh. She bent down to him and reached for his shoulder.

  “You okay?” he asked her. “What happened to your face?” It was red and puffy on her right side.

  “The bastard hit me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “I handled him,” she whispered as she removed her scarf and started making a tourniquet. She attempted to tie off his leg.

  “How?” he asked.

  “Well.” She paused for a moment. “This is Miami.”

  Jerry nodded—under the circumstances, he got the picture.

  Avram came rushing up the stairs, saw them, and kneeled down next to them. “I am so sorry,” he said as he took the scarf in his hands. “This should never have happened.” He tied off the scarf tightly. Sirens wailed in the background.

  “I failed,” Avram said in a voice that was almost inaudible. His eyes watered. He did not have to explain the pain he was feeling, particularly for his young associate downstairs who would not be going home tonight.

  * * *

  Captain Eddie landed the Gulfstream jet with precision, applied the reverse thrusters to reduce speed, and taxied smartly to a hangar somewhere near the end of the various FBOs.

  I had Carlos on the phone. “We just landed—the Gulfstream. See it?” I said as Lenny and I collected our bags.

  “I’m in the silver SUV,” he responded. When I looked out the windows, it seemed like most of the vehicles I could see were silver or gray. He flashed his lights.

  “Drive to the plane.”

  He moved out immediately and stopped close to the jet. He jumped out, the back hatch lifting up, and he personally opened the back door on the driver’s side. Crisply at attention and nicely dressed, he stood at the foot of the steps and was a welcome sight—he represented in that moment a sense of normality and dependability.

  I thanked the pilots and Lenore verbally—we had already shown our appreciation with sixty thousand in cash. Lenny and I came down the stairs, both scanning three hundred and sixty degrees for any problems; none appeared to us.

  Carlos reached for my briefcases, then Lenny’s suitcase. We waved him off and pointed to the car, a Toyota Highlander. I had asked him to get a larger vehicle for the two of us—that he had gotten this one on short notice showed how skillful he was.

  “Let’s go,” I said. “We’ve got a lot to do. In the car.” We sprinted; the thought that bad guys from Siroco knew we were arriving by private plane was a big motivation.

  “You know I’m here for you,” Carlos said as he closed his door and started the engine. “Where to, chief?” He turned to view his passengers. “Forty-niners, right?” he said to Lenny.

  “Yeah,” Lenny responded, “a long time ago. Thanks.”

  “Head to Abbracci,” I instructed.

  “The Italian place.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He put the car in Drive and carefully drove away from the plane toward the exit.

  “Can you get Ross?” I asked Lenny. He tapped his directory and put the phone to his ear. Ross came on immediately and said something to Lenny.

  “Wait,” Lenny said, then put it on speaker. “Say that again.”

  “There’s been an incident at Prime Mortgage,” Ross said with commotion in his background.

  “What kind of incident?” I yelled. My gut tensed like a snapping elastic band.

  “Loo
ks like an attempted kidnapping. Five KIAs.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Four bad guys down, one good guy,” Ross said. “A young kid.”

  I didn’t know what to say. The air was sucked out of my body. I felt an immediate dizzy sensation. “Wha… what else happened there?” I managed to ask.

  “Your girl is fine. A little banged up… but she’s actually one of the heroes in this thing.”

  “What’d she do?” Lenny asked, apparently sensing my creeping incapacity.

  “Come here now,” Ross said and clicked off.

  I took a breath. Energy started moving again in my body, mainly in my brain.

  “Go to Prime Mortgage, near the Arena,” I instructed Carlos.

  “Already on it, chief,” Carlos answered, having heard Ross on the speakerphone. He exited TMB and jammed the car forward at speed. It occurred to me that we might need Carlos for the night. Just then, my cell phone chimed.

  “Yes, Olivia,” I answered. I put it on speaker.

  “We’re going big tonight. It will post at seven. You want to see it now?”

  “Yes, send it now. You’re including the photos?”

  “Sure; they were good.”

  “Good? How about great. I told you I’d get you a Pulitzer.”

  “Okay, they were great. There’s no arrest information yet at the courthouse. What are the charges? Lavorosky and Adams? I can’t find the charges.”

  “I’ll know soon. I’ll call you.”

  She clicked off. I heard my laptop chime; I took it out of my briefcase. The digital article appeared. A screaming headline: Siroco Executives Arrested. Some text and four of our best photos followed. It was good journalism work, and she had the sole byline. But then a thought struck me: how would Ross take this? It could be exactly what he didn’t need, an active case splashed across the largest newspaper in the region.

  * * *

  When we arrived at the Prime Mortgage parking lot, the entrance was blocked by security cones and two sheriff’s deputies. There were what looked to be fifty or so vehicles and lots of flashing lights from police cars, ambulances, EMT trucks, and the usual Crown Victorias favored by the FBI.