White Lines

by Tom Fowler

  He heard one of them step out of cover. The guy was probably trying to be quiet, but the soles of his shoes squeaked on the bare floor. He approached from Tyler’s right. Slowly. One short step after another. Tyler repositioned himself so he could go on the offensive right away. Following another squeaky pace, Tyler leaned out, landed on his side, and aligned iron sights on his target. One twelve-gauge slug took him down. Tyler fired two more in case the other fellow got brave before he moved back into cover.

  Silence prevailed. If the other guy ran for the door, Tyler would hear it. He would have to give pursuit. It allowed for a better chance to escape, making it the superior play. The other three were dead. If their plan had been to steal the drugs and sell them, the survivor would keep all the money. No four-way split. It would take either a fool or someone very loyal to the cartel—or both—to stick around for a shootout.

  A single footfall told Tyler this man was a loyal fool. Unlike his fallen comrade, the remaining flunky went to the left. He’d be less exposed. If he reached the other end of the conveyor belt, Tyler would have a problem. The AK would be good from those hundred feet. The shotgun might be marginal. Tyler was a good enough marksman with the Sig to hit a target from such a range, but one miss would expose him to a hail of gunfire.

  Those weren’t the odds he liked.

  When the other guy’s footsteps grew quieter past the machinery, Tyler slid around to the front of the panel. He peeked over the top. His adversary took a cautious approach, clearing each potential hiding spot before moving on to the next. Probably former military or law enforcement. When he passed the other end of the conveyor, Tyler moved around to the front. He kept low and advanced to the opposite end, the KSG held out in front of him.

  He moved around the far end. The belt whirred to his right, going through the motions and carrying nothing. The guy with the AK checked everywhere Tyler could be hiding. Everywhere except behind him. Tyler sighted him up. He’d be shooting him in the side based on the way he currently stood. The gunman turned his head, and his eyes narrowed at Tyler an instant before a slug blasted him to the floor. Tyler approached, firing a second round into the man’s chest to be sure he was dead. He slung the shotgun over his back again and drew the Sig. Bodies lay around him, and he heard no movement.

  “Looks clear up here,” he said into the small microphone in his collar. “I’m heading your way.”

  “Roger,” came Rollins’ quiet reply.

  Tyler walked toward the stairs. He made it about halfway before another explosion knocked him off balance. It came from the lower level. Tyler sprinted toward the steps and took a position behind the wall nearby. “Rollins, Aguilar . . . do you copy?” Nothing. He waited a few seconds. “Repeat. Rollins, Aguilar . . . do you copy?” No reply. “Shit.” No one else tried to come up the stairs.

  Tyler took a deep breath. It felt like a bigger explosion than Orlan’s grenade. Rollins and Aguilar were pros. They wouldn’t set off a trap. They could get cornered in a room and have a bomb tossed in after them, however. Tyler’s heart sank. Rollins had always been so helpful over the years, and he never let the raw deal he got in the army affect him. Aguilar seemed like a good man, and Sara would be furious if Tyler led him to his death. He tried the comms one more time. “Rollins, Aguilar . . . do you copy?”

  Silence was his only response.

  35

  Lexi sat in her Accord coupe in a bar parking lot. Uncle George had been inside for almost two hours now. Every fifteen minutes, Lexi turned the engine on to get a little heat in the cabin, but she turned it off quickly. Running cars often drew attention. Finally, about five minutes later, her uncle walked out. His gait looked a little unsteady. A responsible person would call a cab or summon an Uber.

  George Goodson, however, would never be mistaken for a responsible person.

  He climbed into his GTI, fired it up, and headed toward the exit. Lexi started the Accord and waited for him to make the right turn out of the lot before she went after him. She tried to hang back, a task made easy due to her uncle’s reckless speeding. Thanks to some cooperation from the traffic lights, he made it back to his small house in Rosedale in about ten minutes. It looked the same as Lexi remembered it, though her current knowledge of the man made her think of it as little and shabby. She was surprised he owned a house. Grifters rarely put down roots.

  She drove by, turned around in a nearby driveway, and parked across the street. Uncle George got out of his car—which was crooked in the driveway—and walked across the lawn to his front door. He dropped his keys, picked them up again, fumbled for the right one, and finally made it inside. When Lexi saw a light come on through the windows, she called him. “Hello?” he said in a slow, skeptical tone.

  “Uncle George, it’s Lexi.” She tried to inject warmth and happiness into her voice.

  “Hey, kiddo. It’ssh a little late, ain’t it?” He slurred his esses when he talked.

  “I guess,” she said. “Don’t tell me you’re keeping regular hours now.”

  He chuckled and hiccuped. “Of coursshe not. What’sh up?”

  “I was just wondering when you were going to visit Mom again. I was kind of surprised to see you both at once, but it was really good, too.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I dunno. In a day or two, I think.”

  “All right,” Lexi said. “I’d like to meet you there if you don’t mind.”

  “It’ll be great.” He sounded happy now. Lexi almost felt bad for him. “Your mom will really love it, too.”

  Not for long, she won’t, Lexi thought. “I’m looking forward to it. Good night, Uncle George.”

  “Good night.”

  She hung up and drove away.

  Tyler led with the Sig as he descended the metal stairs. Despite his best efforts to be quiet, he could hear his own footfalls, so he presumed someone else could, too. When he got to the bottom, Tyler waved dust out of his face. A cloud of it compromised his visibility of the lower level. He hugged the wall and advanced. Drywall, wood, and floor tile formed a trail of debris consistent with the explosion he heard from above.

  No one lurked in the main corridor. Tyler followed the trail of dust and smoke to the right. “Rollins, Aguilar,” he whispered into his collar mic. “You all right?” They still didn’t answer. Three doors yawned open on the left. Tyler cleared each of the rooms. A fractured door on the right opened into a conference room. Smoke billowed out of it, and Tyler waved it away from his eyes as he walked in.

  Rollins and Aguilar lay on the floor, a large conference table shattered and broken nearby. Tyler rushed to them. Aguilar stirred. Tyler felt the unconscious Rollins’ neck, and he found a pulse. “Take it easy,” Tyler said as Aguilar raised himself onto his elbows. “You all right?”

  “I think so.” He looked at Rollins and frowned.

  “He’s alive. What happened?”

  “We were clearing this area,” Aguilar said. “I went to the left . . . he took the right. My side was quicker, so I met him in this room. Two guys ran down, tossed a satchel charge in, and shut the door.”

  “Holy shit.” Tyler took in the remains of the conference room. The rear corner was in ruins, with chunks of the wall missing. A TV lay in pieces all over the area. Cabinets which once held supplies got blasted from the walls in the explosion. “What did you do?”

  “We figured we only had a few seconds.” Aguilar eased into a seated position. “So we stuck as much on top of the explosives as we could. The TV and its cart, mainly. Then we shoved a big table over and took cover. I guess it worked.” He chuckled, which turned into a cough. He held his hand out, and Tyler helped him to his feet.

  “You got lucky.”

  “There’s a little bit of luck in any successful operation,” Aguilar said. He took a couple of unsteady steps before finding his balance. Across the room, Aguilar rooted through the remains of a cabinet before emerging with a first aid kit. He found the smelling salts and held them under Rollins’ nose. His eyes shot open a
couple seconds later.

  “At ease,” Tyler said, putting a hand on Rollins’ shoulder. “You got knocked out when a bomb went off.”

  Rollins blew out a deep breath. “Wow. Our blast shield worked.”

  “Yeah. You think you’re all right?”

  He nodded slowly. “It rang my bell, but I’ll be fine.”

  Tyler took a few steps back and flipped his friend the bird. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “The most important one,” Rollins said with a grin. He sat up and found his pistol on the floor beside him.

  “You two scared me when you didn’t answer. I . . . thought the worst might’ve happened.”

  “Almost did,” Aguilar said. “Putting as much in the way of the fireworks as we could was his idea.” He gestured at the seated Rollins. “I figured we were cooked. The explosion probably knocked out our comms.”

  “I want to clear this level,” Tyler said. “Whoever tried to kill you might still be down here.”

  “You two go,” Rollins said. “I’ll be all right.” He patted his gun with his left hand. “Anybody comes in, I’ll shoot them.”

  Tyler bobbed his head. “Anybody but us, you mean.”

  Rollins smirked. “Better hope I recognize you, then.” He jerked his thumb toward the door. “Go. Don’t let these assholes get away.”

  “Roger,” Tyler said. He and Aguilar returned to the hallway. “I’m going to look upstairs and see if they’ve made it up there.”

  “Comms are out,” Aguilar pointed out.

  Tyler shrugged. “If you hear gunshots, come running.”

  “Copy that.”

  Tyler climbed the steps back to the main level. He didn’t see or hear anyone, and he spent a couple minutes confirming no one occupied the main area. It looked just like he’d left it. He rejoined Aguilar downstairs. “We’re good. Let’s go.” With the dust and smoke dissipating, Tyler spotted a corpse about ten feet down. “You guys shoot one?”

  “Don’t think so,” Aguilar said. “The blast must’ve gotten him.”

  As he approached, Tyler saw the large wooden shard sticking out of the dead man’s left side. An impressive pool of blood already formed. He checked the corpse for weapons and found only a pistol and a grenade. Tyler took the latter, and he and Aguilar continued. The hallway ended at a T intersection about fifty feet ahead. As they neared the end, Tyler heard voices coming from the left. They spoke in Spanish. “Can you hear what they’re saying?” he whispered to Aguilar.

  Aguilar cupped his hand to his ear and stood as close to the corner as he could. “They don’t have any more ordnance.” He paused while the voices kept chattering. “No cell coverage down here. Phones are out.” Another pause. “They’re planning another assault.”

  “Let’s beat them to it,” Tyler said, and he moved out to the left. One door waited on either side of the hallway.

  “On the right,” Aguilar whispered even though Tyler already figured it out.

  “Got it.” He put the Sig away and held the dead man’s grenade. “Cover me.” Aguilar nodded. The door was open. Tyler held the spoon firmly and pulled the pin. As he counted to three, Aguilar moved past him and pointed his gun into the room. Tyler took a step to his left, tossed the grenade in, and shut the door on the surprised voices yelling at them. He and Aguilar dashed down the hallway. An explosion went off behind them.

  “You think they’re dead?” Aguilar asked.

  “Let’s check.” Tyler drew the M11 again, and they approached the room. It was mostly empty. A few bits of furniture, damaged in the blast, lay strewn about the room. Two men near the explosion were already dead. Tyler stepped over an arm blown off one of them to a lone man on the far side of the room. He coughed weakly. As Tyler approached, he scowled.

  “Puta,” he said, and followed it with a string of Spanish Tyler didn’t understand.

  “Reap what you sow, asshole,” Tyler said, and he shot the guy in the head.

  “He posed some serious questions about your mother’s promiscuity,” Aguilar said.

  “Look where it got him.” Tyler looked around, opened a few cabinets and drawers, and discovered a stash of cash. He held up the stacks.

  “Nice. We can use it to fly back. I’m sure there’s a pilot around here who will swallow his questions for twenty grand.”

  Tyler estimated they were the proud owners of about eighty thousand in hundred-dollar bills. They left the room, cleared the rest of the lower area, and returned to where they’d left Rollins. He’d pulled himself back to his feet, and he didn’t shoot when they entered. A double win.

  “We have a half-hour,” Rollins said. “Reception sucks down here, but I want to call C.T. once we’re back upstairs.”

  They returned to the main level. No one else arrived in the interim. “Let’s get as much as we can,” Tyler said. “We’ll burn the rest.”

  Rollins made a call and put it on speaker after a few seconds. “We’ve taken out the guys here.”

  “I never had a doubt,” C.T. said.

  “We want the money man now,” Rollins said.

  “Good call. The cartel is a cash business. They need to clean it somehow. I’ll do some digging.”

  “We’re probably headed back tomorrow,” Tyler said. “You think you’ll know by then?”

  “Only if you double my rate,” C.T. said.

  “You’re doing us a favor,” Rollins said.

  “I tried. Yeah, I’ll probably know something by then.”

  “Great. Thanks.” Rollins hung up, and the trio loaded as much as they could into one of the Suburbans. They’d transfer the contents to their Yukon. With about ten minutes remaining until the alarm system came back on, Aguilar and Rollins pushed the remaining bricks together while Tyler siphoned some gas from one of the vehicles they wouldn’t use. He let it drain into a water bottle, then carried it inside and spread it around the rest of the coke.

  Aguilar took a lighter from his pocket. “Never know when you’re going to be asked to light a pretty girl’s cigarette,” he said.

  “Or light a drug lord’s cache on fire,” Tyler said.

  “All things being equal, I’d prefer a couple pretty girls to you two.”

  “I understand.” Tyler handed Aguilar a hundred and then took out his phone to record a video. Aguilar lit the bill and tossed it onto the pile. The small flame grew to a large blaze right away. Tyler filmed it for about twenty seconds before the smell of the burning drugs grew pungent. They torched two of the cartel’s SUVs, left the Iron Tower in two hot-wired Suburbans, and drove back to their Yukon across the road.

  After leaving the Iron Tower, the three men checked into two different motels across the street from one another. The night passed uneventfully. In the morning, Aguilar picked up McDonald’s for breakfast and a bottle of Tylenol for Rollins’ headache and everyone’s lingering aches and pains. After breakfast, they drove to Astro Airfield. Rollins still had an old MP badge, and Aguilar carried at least one ID from his past work. Between those and the promise of twenty thousand in cash, they found a pilot who promised discretion.

  Tyler and Aguilar loaded the boxes containing bricks of coke onto the plane while Rollins drove off in the Suburban. When he returned about fifteen minutes later, Tyler noticed a plume of black smoke in the distance. Aguilar arranged a couple of large SUVs to meet them. They’d be flying into a different airport, one the pilot said wouldn’t ask questions if there was more cash to go around.

  About three hours later, they gave a stack of bills to the swarthy guy at Southern Maryland Airpark. Aguilar and one of his men each drove an SUV to Tyler’s house. There, they unloaded everything into a room in the basement. Tyler expanded his underground storage when he bought the house. It held his mementos from the army, along with enough guns and ammo to hold off an invasion for a month. He never expected to house a cache of drugs in it, but regardless, it was difficult to find and impossible to access without knowing how.

  Once the stash was secu
re, Aguilar paid his comrades with some of the remaining drug money. Tyler texted Lexi and brewed a pot of coffee while Rollins called C.T. Ferguson on speaker. “I have an answer for you,” the private eye said. “A couple, actually. It’s not surprising they have more than one place cleaning the money.”

  “How many are we talking?” Tyler asked.

  “At least two. If I dug deeper, I could probably find more. Let’s start with the smaller one. Héctor and Rodolfo are part owners of a car repair shop in Kingsville.”

  Tyler pounded his fist into his palm. “Alice told me they usually took their cars to one place for service. I never thought they’d have a piece of it.”

  “Makes sense,” Rollins said. “You’ll have some people paying in cash, and you’re constantly buying supplies, gas, and all sorts of things.”

  “Right,” C.T. said. “The bigger one was right under our noses. Héctor’s tied into the community where he lives. His business partner is a guy named Todd Windholm. I’ve never been a fan of guys named Todd.”

  Tyler grinned. “The Carlin bit. I’ve met Windholm. He’s an asshole and a toady.”

  “But not an idiot. He owns a couple companies by himself, so they’re not traceable to Héctor or any of the cartel’s interests. One of them is a construction supplier. Guess who provides all the equipment for Talbot Lakes?”

  “Windolm’s company,” Tyler said even though the answer was obvious.

  “You’ve played this game before, I see. A business like this allows him to make a lot of purchases of various sizes. It’s a great way to clean a bunch of dirty money.” C.T. paused. “It’s local. My guess is they don’t want to keep most of the cash with Héctor, so it’s probably stashed somewhere at Windholm’s. If you . . . want to break in and look around, for instance, I could probably help with the alarm there, too.”