by Jack Hardin
“What does his record look like?”
“He was recently questioned in relation to a cocaine supply chain in Miramar but was never arrested for it. Other than that, he hasn’t been eyed by the law since you killed his brother. I’ll text you his address.”
Navi Molina was obviously involved with Mike and Darren Reddick’s situation, but that didn’t mean he knew about someone wanting me dead. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see me,” I said.
“Why don’t I have Miami PD send out a squad to meet you over there?”
“Let me scout things first,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”
“Don’t be a cowboy,” she said. “If you need someone to get your back, let me know.”
“I will.” The light ahead of me turned green, and I accelerated through the intersection, entering downtown. “Can you check who Fry and Burkes were in prison with against men that I’ve arrested in the last two years? It might be that they shared a cell block with someone still on the inside and a favor owed was called in.”
“Absolutely,” Kathleen said. “Keep me in the loop.”
We hung up, and I stopped in front of another red light.
It didn’t bother me that someone wanted me dead; when a man stands up for the law, for what’s right, for justice, he’s going to make some enemies. But what did concern me was the outright boldness in which my murder was attempted. Fry and Burkes must have owed someone a big favor or promised a handsome payday.
Whoever it was, they were going to regret it in spades.
Chapter Six
A half-mile later I turned off Biscayne Boulevard and slowed as I passed the Dominion Hotel, a five-star establishment that rose twenty-two stories above the Magic City. The last time I was at the Dominion was late last year, attending a retirement party for a mentor and good friend.
Lieutenant Colonel William McCleary had been my battalion commander during my time with the 503rd MP Airborne. He was not only the best commander I’d ever served under, but he was also one of the best men I’d ever had the privilege of knowing. McCleary had kept a continual focus on his men and his mission over that of furthering his own career. He built tenacity in me as an investigator and taught me to always focus on furthering justice, not just on closing out another case. Crimes affected real people, and McCleary was determined that the work his investigators did would help those people sleep better at night.
Late into the night of his retirement party, after the attendees had left and we had all dispersed to our rooms, Colonel McCleary’s room was quietly entered and he was thrown off his balcony to the street below, where he died on impact.
Now, in the lane beside me, a Ford F-250 was passing over the area of the street where his body had landed.
I had spent the next five days running around Washington, D.C., Miami, and the Everglades, hunting down the men responsible for his death.
It didn’t end well for them.
Putting downtown behind me, I merged onto Route 41, following my GPS west out of the city and through Coral Gables, Westchester, University Park, and Tamiami, before turning south onto Lindgren Road. The community was a world apart from Overtown, with houses boasting red-tile roofs and well-kept yards, palm trees stationed in intervals along the center of the median, and clean sidewalks. But the closer I crept toward the Everglades, the more run-down the scene became.
The houses grew further apart and sat on tracts of land that grew larger the farther on I went, cookie-cutter homes giving way to older structures. I entered a rural neighborhood where homes sat on two- and three-acre lots and were set back farther off the road. I turned down an empty road that dead-ended at the edge of the Everglades a half-mile farther down. Six lots down, my navigation notified me that the address I was seeking was now directly on my left.
The house was a sizable stucco two-story, with a scrolled-iron railing hedging in an elongated balcony above the garage. The yard was unkempt but free of foreign debris. The grass was at least two feet high, and untrimmed oleander bushes with full pink blossoms covered most of the long front porch. The back of the lot was more overgrown than the front and extended fifty yards to a thick line of trees.
Pea gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled down the extended driveway. There were two cars in front of the garage, a dark blue Hummer and Navi’s red Camaro. I pulled in behind the Camaro and put my truck in park. Grabbing my phone, I brought up the secure FID and logged into my Homeland account via the VPN.
I learned a long time ago that there is no such thing as being over-prepared—especially when you’re alone and about to walk into a hornet’s nest.
I spent a few minutes quickly studying files, pictures, and details, before logging off and lifting the cover to the center console. I dug out a body cam and slipped my arms through the elastic straps, tugging them tight across my chest and making sure the camera was pointed forward. Then I fished out my badge from the inside of my shirt and dropped it down the front, where it came to rest on its chain just below the camera. Satisfied, I grabbed out a pair of handcuffs and turned off the truck’s engine.
The home’s front door opened and a burly Latino man stepped onto the front porch and craned his neck, examining the new vehicle sitting in the driveway.
I stepped out of my truck and shut the door. The man on the porch walked to the edge of the front steps and crossed his thick arms across his chest. He wore a black T-shirt with 2Pac’s face stamped large across the front. The shirt hung to his knees, his denim shorts reaching to his ankles like high-water pants. As I drew closer, I could make out deep acne scars scattered across his plump cheeks. Cold, beady eyes peered out from beneath thick brows, and before I had stepped off the driveway onto the sidewalk, he spoke up.
“What do you want?” His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for such a solid man.
I stopped at the bottom step and looked up at him. “I’m here to see Navi. Is he home?”
“Navi? Nah. He’s not here.”
I nodded toward the Camaro. “His car is here. I want to talk with him.”
He took his time summing me up, his eyes lingering on my badge, his facing frowning when he saw the camera for what it was. “You recording me?”
“I’m a federal agent with Homeland Security. And to be upfront with you, I’m not one to just take a drive to someone’s house for the sake of wasting time.”
“That’s too bad. ‘Cause you did waste your time.”
I smiled. “Okay, Rico. Rico Sanchez.” His eyes widened. “This is how I’m going to play this. You’re wanted by the good men and women of the Orlando PD for running from a meth lab they busted up there last month.”
Rico’s bravado suddenly vanished. Now he looked like a frightened cat. He glanced back to the front door as though he was considering darting back through it.
“But here’s the deal,” I continued. “You’re a known associate of Navi. So the way I see it, if the Orlando PD wants you bad enough, then they wouldn’t have to look too hard. Now, I came out here to speak with Navi. If you can arrange a successful meeting with him in the next sixty seconds, then I’ll forget all about your little issue up in Orlando. I have no interest in you other than you getting me in front of Navi.”
While I was speaking, Rico’s expression shifted quickly from surprise to concern to anger. His jaw tensed and now he looked like he wanted to give me a piece of his mind. But after reconsidering, he simply said, “Wait here,” and started to turn back.
“I don’t think so.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re not leaving me out here. I’m coming with you.”
His fingers clenched at his sides. He looked like he was struggling with a decision, as though he needed someone inside the house—someone with a higher IQ—to tell him exactly what to do.
“Fine,” he conceded and turned back to the front door.
I followed him inside. The place smelled bitterly of marijuana and dirty dishes. Before my feet were across the threshold I was assessing the
layout: high ceilings, a long hallway with an empty office off the left. Rico led me into a living room with a vaulted ceiling. It opened onto a spacious kitchen with vaulted ceilings. A massive television showing the most recent edition of MTV Cribs hung on the wall above the mantle. A young man dressed nearly identical to Rico was lying on a couch, his eyes glued to the details of Snoop Dogg’s house.
Rico called out to the young man. “Yo, Beto. Get up.”
Beto turned his head slowly, and his whole body jerked when he saw me. He jumped off the couch like the fire alarm had just gone off. “What the hell?” he snapped. His hazel eyes were wide, the Miami Dolphins hat on his head tilting to the side. “Who is this?”
“He’s a cop. Here to see Navi. Hurry up and tell him to come down.”
Beto frowned at Rico, like he was having trouble processing the directive.
“Now, Beto!” Rico snapped.
Beto nodded to himself and then hustled across the living room, shooting up the carpeted stairs at the far end of the room. I repositioned myself with my back to the kitchen cabinets and the living room spread out in front of me so I could keep an eye on the stairs. My right hand hung loosely at my side, prepared to draw my .45 on a moment's notice. Rico stood near the couch, staring at a space near his feet in the awkward silence. On an end table, thin tendrils of smoke were curling up from a half-smoked blunt.
Above me, a floorboard creaked. A few seconds later, I heard footsteps stop at the top of the stairs and a short conversation commence in muted whispers. Finally, the footsteps moved down the stairs. Rico appeared first and stood by the back door with his hands clasped in front of him.
Another person came down the stairs and stopped on the bottom step. I recognized Navi Molina immediately. Unlike his two counterparts, Navi was tall, dressed in khaki pants, a green polo, and his dark hair was slicked back above his forehead. He had wide cheekbones but a small nose, as though it had been parted out as a genetic afterthought.
His eyes narrowed on me and his upper lip curled in disgust, “You,” he said coolly.
I smiled. “Hello, Navi.” Navi and I had met only once before. Hours after killing his older brother, I spent that evening questioning him about Jordi’s organization. Now, he stood at the end of the stairs and huffed, jutting his chin toward the blunt on the end table. “What?” he said. “You’re going to arrest me for a little grass? I know you don’t have a warrant. Not for that.”
“I don’t have a warrant,” I agreed. “But that’s beside the point.” I motioned to the camera strapped to my chest. “And just so you boys are aware, you’re on Candid Camera. As we speak, the feed on this camera is relaying a wireless feed to an agent at my office.”
“What’s Candid Camera?” Rico asked.
I sighed. “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that every one of your depressing mugs is on a live feed right now. So I wouldn’t try anything.”
Navi shot an angry stare toward Rico. “What’d you let him in for? He doesn’t even have a warrant.”
“Rico let me in because he doesn’t like the idea of jail time. And Beto over there doesn’t know it yet, but I’m giving him exactly fifteen seconds to walk out the front door or I’m going to cuff him for that corner store he knocked over last month.”
Beto’s head snapped toward me. “Ah, you didn’t know we knew, did you?” I looked at my watch, clicking my tongue. “Ten seconds.”
Beto looked to Navi for direction. Navi only shrugged and somewhat irritably nodded for Beto to comply. The young man moved quickly across the carpet, past the barstools sitting along the kitchen island, and shot down the hall. The front door clicked shut, and all was quiet.
“You, too,” I said to Rico. “Beat it.” Rico didn’t wait for permission. He was outside in seconds.
I stepped into the living room. Smiling, I said, “How have you been, Navi?”
“What are you doing here, Agent Savage? I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t just force yourself into someone's house like this.”
“Where were you last night, Navi? Did you go into the city at all?”
“The city? No. I haven’t been outside of Tamiami all week.”
There was no hint of uncertainty in his eyes. He was a good liar.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So last night, around say, eight o’clock, you didn’t meet Tony Fry at a gas station on NW 18th and receive a box of computer hardware from him?”
He blinked.
“I’m asking because you may not know that Tony was killed last night. And so was Melvin Burkes.”
His eyes widened almost imperceptibly, as though a light breeze had just come from the window and grazed past his face. “Why are you here, Agent Savage?”
“You’re not as smart as you dress, Navi. Did you send those men to kill me last night?”
His hard expression suddenly melted in one of fear and confusion. “Kill you? Man, I don’t know anything about that.”
“Where are the servers, Navi? I need what Tony handed over to you. Was he doing a job for you?”
Navi looked away, out the window just off the stairs. His jaw flexed.
“You’re going to need to start giving me some answ—”
That was as far as I got. Like someone had just told him that the first floor was about to explode, he turned and bolted back up the stairs and out of sight. I cursed, drawing my pistol as I crossed the living room and followed him up. A landing halfway up gave me pause, and I turned it cautiously, my .45 leading the way. Finding it empty, I took the remaining steps two-by-two. The top landing opened onto a game room complete with a pool table, large panel TV with an X-box, foosball table, and a dartboard that didn’t have a single puncture wound in the cork.
I stepped through the room and into the hallway just as a loud crash came from the back of the house. As soon as I heard an outside door open, I knew what I was in for.
I shot down the hallway, quickly clearing the entrance to the bedrooms as I moved past. In the master bedroom, a blond-haired lady was propped up in the king bed, naked, her head leaning limply against a pillow, her lips frozen in a thin, stupid smile. A bent spoon and a needle lay on the nightstand. She was surfing in the clouds, completely oblivious to the chaos around her.
I advanced out of the hallway into a huge open room that took up a third of the top floor. Blue Rubbermaid bins lined one wall halfway up to the ceiling and a messy desk was wedged into the far corner. A couple of bins were randomly scattered on the floor, one of their lids missing. Inside were clear plastic bags packed with women’s jewelry—bracelets, earrings, and necklaces.
The source of the crash I’d heard was strewn out in a million pieces across the floor: the top of a glass coffee table. Navi must have tripped and fallen into it. Beyond the mess, two French doors leading onto a rear balcony were wide open. I stepped across the threshold to see Navi in the overgrown yard below, pushing through the grass on his way to the tree line.
Grabbing the balcony’s railing, I swung a leg over the top, found a foothold on the edge, and swung around my other leg. I looked down and hesitated; it was a good fourteen or fifteen feet. I holstered my pistol and maneuvered my feet off the ledge as I hung onto the railing and then slid my fingers onto the concrete ledge. I let go and fell to the earth, sharp, invisible pinpricks stinging my feet as I stood up and chased hard after Navi. He had a solid twenty-yard gain on me and was heading directly for a thick growth of cypress and wax myrtles.
I should have seen this coming. It’s what you get when you give a bad man a slim door of opportunity.
I high stepped as I ran, bringing my feet over grasses that were growing taller and thicker the closer I got to the trees. This part of the property probably hadn’t seen a mower in over a year. Behind me, I could hear the squeal of tires as Rico and Beto apparently decided to beat a more distant retreat.
Ahead, Navi entered the treeline, and I watched the green fabric of his shirt fade to the left before he disappeared altogether. The grass finally
gave way to dense bushes, and I ducked and covered my head with my arms as my feet stepped into ankle-deep water as dark brown as my grandmother’s sweet tea.
I veered off in the direction I’d last seen Navi and then stopped. I could hear him sloshing through water about thirty feet ahead. My heart was pounding, and I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow as I pursued him into the largest swamp in the state. I pursued him for five more minutes, stopping periodically to audibly reorient myself to his location. My arms and neck were starting to bleed with tiny cuts from the brush as I was gaining on him, all the while thinking about how nice it might be to stay out here and waterboard him for a while once I finally caught him.
Soon the water started to grow more shallow and then finally faded altogether. As soon as the soles of my shoes squished onto dry ground, I heard a brief, but urgent scream from up ahead. Quickening my pace, I hurried forward, ducking around dry branches laden with Spanish moss and cutting through thick vegetation, until I reached a small sunlit clearing and stopped.
Navi was standing twenty feet away at the opposite side of the clearing with his back to me, unmoving. Keeping my gun trained on him, I slowly advanced toward him in a wide circle.
“Navi?”
I followed his frightened gaze toward his feet, where, near the base of a pine tree, an eastern diamondback rattlesnake was sunning itself on a bed of dry pine needles. Navi had nearly stepped on it—the snake was no more than two feet from him, the anterior half of its body swaying off the ground in an S-shaped coil, its rattle shaking again and sending a chill down my spine.
The eastern diamondback is the largest rattlesnake in the world, and this one was no exception. On average they grow to six feet long and strike their prey at 175 miles per hour, delivering enough venom in a single bite to kill six grown men.
“Help...me,” he whispered as calmly as he could.
The snake picked up on Navi’s tension. It rose up higher, and the rattle shook faster.
I smiled and lowered my gun. “What a pickle you’re in,” I said. “I guess that’s what you get for running into a swamp.”
