A Sure Thing: What happens when modern racing is infected by the criminal underworld.

by Sam O'Brien

  Agent Rosen pricked up his ears. “What’s going on?”

  “A plane’s doubling back five minutes after take-off. Some kind of emergency. They want us and the cops to meet it.”

  “Terrorists?” said Monica.

  The officer shrugged. “Nah, if they thought that, the plane’d be diverted and all hell’d break loose.” He got up and strapped on his gun belt.

  Rosen looked at his watch. “Mind if we tag along? Nothing else to do.”

  He shrugged again. “If you want.” He shuffled his bulk towards the door. “Say, you any good with animals?”

  “What?” asked Monica.

  “Animals. They’ve got ‘em on board.”

  Outside the terminal, they waited by an airport police car for the plane to land. Passenger jets roared overhead and all around them. Monica asked a cop for earplugs, which produced a loud cackle and a bit of mocking. She walked away from the group and flicked the finger to a cop who wolf-whistled.

  Rosen turned his back and made a call.

  “It’s me. The plane took off. OK, OK, don’t have a shit; it turned around. We’re waiting on the ground. You should go now.”

  “Let me know how it goes down,” said Huntley. “And don’t forget, you’ll have to take the syringes from our guy before PD finds them.”

  “Won’t he dump them on board?”

  “No, if he does that, they’ll be found when they tear the plane apart. He knows he has to give them to you. If PD does find them, pull rank and take over, citing drugs as the cause.”

  “Leave it to me.”

  * * *

  Huntley got out of his blacked-out SUV. The stress lines on his face were deeper and craggier than usual, and his skin was almost transparent from lack of sleep. He scanned the thickly wooded area where the team was parked up waiting. The squad consisted of Mitch and Jerry from the listening post, and ten other agents brought in from Washington DC and briefed on the mission just two hours ago. They would drive the ten miles to Marco’s fortress, in a convoy consisting of Huntley’s SUV, a blacked-out minivan, and two unmarked prisoner transportation wagons.

  Huntley checked his gun and patted his pocket for the warrant. The other agents followed his lead, checking their weapons; some tapped their kevlar vests for good luck and zipped up their DEA jackets. Mitch and Jerry as team leaders were excited at the prospect of taking down a crime boss and getting credit for their months of confinement in a rented house.

  “Saddle up,” said Huntley, in an ominous voice. “You three, with me. We drive hard and fast, but no sirens. Understand?” The other men nodded. Huntley got behind the wheel and the convoy pulled out of the woods. They stuck to the quiet roads for as long as possible, before swinging out into suburbia.

  Chapter 60

  The plane taxied away from the runway and ground to a halt on an empty piece of tarmac near the cargo terminal. The Customs officers waiting in the cars had been given direct radio contact with the Captain, who informed them two horses were dead and others appeared to be sick. He also did his best to describe the strange object he had seen protruding from one distressed animal.

  The cargo doors were kept locked, while the ground staff drove a sky-stair up to the smaller front door. The Customs officers rattled their way into the plane without delay, the two cops following them. Agents Rosen and Kimble climbed up last, as if only vaguely interested in the situation.

  Rosen poked his head into the plane and took stock of the situation. Customs officer Johnson was standing in the cockpit doorway, talking in hushed tones to the pilots. Another was leading the two cops back through the aircraft toward the rear, where Oliver, Rebecca and one very angry, red-faced man were standing. The flight steward was attending to a young guy plonked on the jumpseat with a cut on his forehead and a frightened look on his face.

  The horses in the forward part of the plane were snorting curiously at the visitors, while a number of those towards the rear were whinnying nervously and pawing the ground.

  Rosen moved into the aisle and motioned for Kimble to remain in the doorway. She was visibly pleased to do so, and shot a horrified look at the nearest horse, who snorted sharply at her.

  Rosen took in the emotional babbling and finger-pointing of the red-faced man, and saw the expression on the cops’ faces when they looked over the partition. The Customs officer called for his partner, who pushed his considerable bulk past Rosen and joined the others.

  Oliver and Rebecca were boxed in at the rear of the plane, doing their best to look nervous. The cops drew their guns and the Customs officers cuffed them. The red-faced man was also cuffed, much to his disgust. He started complaining even louder. “What the fock are you doing? Tis them, tis all them,” he kept repeating.

  Officer Johnson beckoned for Rosen to join them.

  “It’s all fun and games today,” said the DEA agent in a relaxed voice. “What’s the deal?”

  “You’d better look in there,” said Johnson, cocking his thumb at the nearest stall.

  Rosen peered at the stricken horse and carefully looked at the tubular object now almost all the way out of the horse’s vagina. Immediately, his demeanour changed.

  “Holy fucking shit!” he said. “I’ve got a good idea what that is. I’ve got to insist that DEA take over the situation.” He whipped out his badge for all to see.

  Johnson gave him a blank look. “You what?”

  Rosen turned his head. “Kimble, get your ass back here.”

  Monica trotted up to her boss, while avoiding to touch off any of the stalls. She listened intently with a calm expression while Rosen barked orders at her.

  “Take these three off the plane; the police officers will help you. Stash them in a holding room and keep them restrained. Do not, repeat, do not let anyone question or search them until I join you. I’ll stay here with Customs and search the plane.”

  Then he turned to Johnson. “Get me a vet and get the horse trucks back for the animals. They can’t have gone that far. We’re also going to need dogs and more men to go through the plane. Get on it.”

  Johnson still had the blank look on his round face.

  “Now!” barked Rosen.

  Johnson pulled his radio to his face and repeated Rosen’s requirements.

  Rosen shot Monica a look, which said: what are you still doing here?

  “What about the plane we’re waiting for?” she said.

  “I’ll get another team for that, it’s not due in for an hour.”

  She nodded and drew her weapon. “Let’s go.” She waved the muzzle at Oliver and a cop grabbed him by the elbow and moved him out. The second took Tom, and Monica escorted Rebecca off the aircraft.

  Nobody said a word until they were seated on the floor in a small room.

  * * *

  Mike answered his phone. “Yeah?”

  The voice spoke in a whisper. “The plane came back. There were cops crawling all over it. They took everyone away and now they’re hauling dead horses off.”

  “Oh fuck.” Mike hung up and ran to a payphone.

  “This is a fockin’ total joke altogether,” Tom said to Monica and the cops.

  He was met with stony gazes from the three chairs at the other side of the room.

  Tom’s eyes were wild with rage. He leaned closer to Oliver and strained his hands in their cuffs. “You fockin’ asshole.”

  One cop stood and pushed Tom’s shoulder with his baton. “Easy, now. Back to the wall and calm down, OK?”

  Tom took a deep breath. “You know his brother was caught smuggling stuff on his planes in Ireland?” he said to Monica. “I’m telling you, it runs in the family. By all accounts, he was a prizewinning asshole, too.”

  Monica looked a bit unsure of herself. In, truth she was as much in the dark as the poor man spitting fire opposite her.

  Rebecca broke the tension by asking for water and telling Tom to shut his ass, which made the young agent smirk. She dispatched a cop to get a large bottle and six cups.


  Four-and-a-half hours later, Tom was still seething with rage, but Oliver and Rebecca were fast asleep on each other’s shoulders. Monica figured this was the best textbook indication of guilt that she had seen in the field.

  An hour after that, Rosen burst into the room with four more DEA agents and dismissed the cops, who vacated their chairs hastily in case he changed his mind. Monica stood upright as if at attention.

  “We take them all to local CPD station for questioning. They ride in separate cars.” He pointed at Oliver. “Kimble, he comes with us.”

  Oliver was bundled into the backseat of Rosen’s car. He found it difficult to sit properly wearing handcuffs and had to sit sideways, facing Monica, who looked at him like he was a piece of garbage.

  When they were underway, the senior agent addressed his partner. “Kimble, check his jacket and remove any syringes you might find.”

  Her jaw dropped open as if she was about to ask a question, but she remained silent and went through Oliver’s pockets, avoiding eye contact with him. She found the bundle in his pocket and held it up.

  “This what you want?”

  Rosen glanced in the mirror. “Yeah, throw it on the front seat. Are there any more?”

  “No,” answered Oliver.

  “Nobody’s talking to you,” spat Monica.

  “It’s alright, Monica. Go easy on him, there’s a few things you don’t know. Are you OK, man?”

  “Yes, thanks. Except for all the abuse I’ve had to put up with – that Tom Callaghan could be your star witness. At least, he could keep me and Rebecca from getting nailed.”

  Rosen glanced back pensively at him in the mirror.

  Glancing from Oliver to her boss, Monica said, “You going to fill me in?”

  Rosen told her the whole story.

  “So the other team’s busting Marco Romano as we speak?” she said.

  * * *

  Marco was sitting in the kitchen sipping a coffee and watching the trees rustle in the mid-morning breeze. His terrier was snuggled on his lap and snoring lightly. Marco stroked him, grinning as he considered the profit he would make from the shipment. He would be the first to flood Celtic Tiger Ireland with proper high quality product. They would go mad for it, and they had cash to burn.

  The intercom on the kitchen wall buzzed urgently. Marco sighed and got up, depositing the disgruntled dog onto the floor.

  He could barely understand the old man’s garbled gibberish at the other end.

  “Luigi, slow down. What the fuck’s wrong?”

  Luigi took a deep breath and got a grip of himself. “Sorry, Marco, but there’s a bunch of blacked-out cars and vans at the gate, and a goddamn Fed waving a badge and a piece of paper.”

  “Jesus fuckin’ . . .” Marco gripped the cordless handset in his fist and hurried into the den, where he found his son sprawled on the sofa watching a romantic comedy.

  “Gimme that thing,” he said, snatching the remote from Robert’s hand.

  The young Romano’s surprise turned to shock when he saw the image from the gate camera plastered onto the enormous screen.

  Marco’s face darkened, and he clenched his other fist so hard, the knuckles turned white. There was a tinny voice coming from the phone.

  “What?” he said, bringing it up to his ear.

  “Do I let them in?”

  “If that’s a warrant, you’ll have to. Tell the guards to stand down. All their weapons are licenced, right?”

  “Yeah, Marco. To the gun club out west.”

  “Will they find the heavy weapons?”

  “Not a chance, unless they cut the tree down.”

  “Good. Open the gate a crack and check the warrant. If it’s good, let them in. I don’t want a fuckin’ shoot out, so make sure all three guards are standing in front of the house with their guns on the ground and their hands in the air. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “And tell everyone to be polite, no matter what, OK?”

  “OK, Marco.”

  The Mafia boss threw the phone hard against the wall, shattering it. His son jumped. It only took a second for the wheels to turn in Marco’s head. That little Irish prick must have fucked something up at the airport. The only question was: by accident, or on purpose? If they had a warrant ready, they must’ve known something. He considered the options.

  “Robert, get your ass upstairs. Shit’s hit the fan, we gotta talk,” he said, in a voice that was pure, rough, street menace. “You stay here, little buddy,” he said affectionately to the dog, which looked at him as if he understood. “When those assholes come in, you bite ‘em. OK?” The dog barked. Marco grinned again and began trotting up the stairway.

  Robert was too bewildered to protest, so he followed his father meekly up to the small room at the top of the house. They sat on the window seat and watched Luigi open the gate and talk to the agent.

  “Dad, am I going to lose you?”

  Marco looked at his frightened son with an expression that was a mixture of disappointment and steely resolve. His phone rang. “Boss, the plane turned back. There’s cops all over it. There’s dead horses, too.”

  “I got Feds here, too. You take off. Now. Find the terriers. You said they’d do anything for me; now’s the time. They gotta step up, just like we said. Or else you gotta tidy up. Understand?”

  “Sure thing. I’m on it.”

  “You don’t have time to fuck around. Use the Weasel.”

  “It’s done, Boss.”

  “Good luck.” He flipped the device shut and checked the front gate. It was opening slowly, and Luigi was standing just inside it with his three guys. Three shotguns and a pistol were lying on the ground. Marco looked at his watch. He took the SIM card out of his phone and bit it in two, then he dropped the handset and stood on it.

  “What’s going on, Dad?”

  “Robert, listen to me very carefully,” he said, jabbing a finger at his son. “I got some business going with Oliver and the horses. We’ve been using horses to ship product to Ireland.”

  “Product?”

  Marco had an exasperated look in his eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me. That fuckin’ South American powder you like so much. Now shut up and let me finish.”

  Robert was visibly shocked.

  “Here’s the thing: those fuckin’ assholes outside are Feds with a warrant, so I know something’s gone wrong. I want you to give a statement saying that the operation had nothing to do with me. You say the terriers, Tomo and Tito, came to you with a deal. You wanted to prove yourself to me, so you used your horses – they’re yours on paper, remember – to ship the stuff to Ireland. You knew there was demand there and a shortage of quality product. Those two little fuckers wanted to make extra money and they heard that shit about Oliver’s brother, so they figured he’d be an easy touch for the transport. You guys all wanted to make good business to get rich and impress me.”

  “But, Dad . . . I . . .”

  “Shut up. Tell the Feds it was them, and you and the Irishman. They’ll believe you, ‘cause the terriers’ll back up your story and, after all, you are my son.” He slapped Robert playfully on the face. “They don’t know you’re soft, like your mother. It’s time to man up and do this one thing for me. Don’t worry, I’ll get you all kinds of lawyers and shit. You’ll probably get eight to ten. Shit, you’ll still be young when you get out. A man, ready to go into business with me: set for life. I mean it.”

  “Eight to ten years? You’d sent me to jail for eight years just to save yourself?” Robert sobbed.

  “It’s not a simple as that. Yeah, I know I’m getting old,” he said, waving his hand dismissively. “But I gotta stay out here to run the business. If I go away, the fuckers’ll start a war and they’ll probably even come after you. So you see, I gotta stay out here. And don’t worry, you’ll be safe inside. Nobody’ll put a finger on you. That’s a guarantee.”

  “So you’d send me to jail just to keep your business running?”

&
nbsp; “Hey, this fuckin’ business pays for the clothes on your back and your lifestyle. I don’t see you complaining ‘bout that. You’re my son; I’d never ask you to make your bones, but you gotta do this for the family.”

  “But I never wanted to be a part of it.”

  “You like the fuckin’ money, though, and the wheels I grease for you.”

  “Well, I . . .”

  “Well, you what? You could’ve told me to fuck off, and stayed in California being a poor artist.”

  “But you forced me to come back. You bribed me!”

  “Yeah, and you took it. So don’t be a pussy when it’s payback. Come on, think of it as a deal. You do this for me and you’re made.”

  Robert could feel tears welling up. He switched his gaze from his father to the window, and could see Luigi and the others being handcuffed and loaded into a van. Other agents cocked their weapons in the direction of the house. One saw the figures in the top window and pointed directly at Robert.

  “And what if I don’t do it? What if I just keep my mouth shut?”

  Marco flew into a rage. He grabbed his son by the neck. “You don’t say no to me!” he roared. “This is not a fuckin’ request, understand?”

  Robert was so stunned by his father that, for a moment, his fear shut down and the distant memory of his mother being attacked came flooding back.

  “So now you’re going to bully me, like you did Mom.”

  Marco’s eyes were as black as coal, but he faltered for a second, relaxing his grip. “I loved your mother; I still do. Her death was the worst thing ever happened to me, but she was weak.” He uttered the last few words in a tone of sheer contempt.

  “Maybe she wasn’t weak, maybe she just wasn’t like you.”

  The big man’s resolve returned, and he darted his fist into his son’s jaw with lightning speed, knocking him off the window seat into a heap on the floor.

  “Fuck you!” he bellowed like a wild animal. “Your mother was weak; she took her own life.” Even as he said the words, he could not believe he had uttered them.