by M. A. Lawson
“Where’s Otis?”
“He went to breakfast, then came back to the motel and went out to sit by the pool. When he left for breakfast, the woman in the car got out and watched him walk to the diner, then got back into her car. What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. Just keep watching them. If Otis leaves, stay with the woman not him, although I’ll bet she follows him. And be careful she doesn’t spot you. You’re a very capable, well-trained agent, but she’s better than you.”
“Is that right?” Beckman said.
“Yes. And it would be good for you to remember that.”
• • •
OTIS WAS NOW behind the low concrete wall that partially hid the motel swimming pool. Kay guessed that he was waiting for something or someone. He sure as hell wasn’t working on his tan.
She wondered what had happened to Simpson. She assumed that he had taken his share of the money and split for greener pastures, but she didn’t really care.
• • •
BECKMAN WAS STAYING in a room at the Starlight Motel as well. Otis didn’t know who she was, so why not? She’d gotten a room on the second floor and it was pure, dumb luck that she could see the woman sitting in her car from her room. Unfortunately, she couldn’t see Otis by the pool unless she stood on the walkway outside her room, so to have an excuse for standing on the walkway, she’d taken up smoking, which she hated. Her hair smelled like she’d brushed it with an ashtray. But every twenty minutes or so, she’d step out of the room, have a cigarette or pretend to blab on her cell phone, and check on Otis.
• • •
OTIS WAS RECLINING IN A LOUNGE CHAIR, reading the ads in the Miami Herald, looking at the classic cars that were for sale—the kind of cars he refurbished. He couldn’t help but think about the Thunderbird sitting in his shop back home. The way things were looking, that Thunderbird might be sitting there for a long time.
The gate to the pool area opened and the skinny Hispanic kid who worked for Goldman walked toward him carrying a cloth shopping bag.
“Here’s your money,” the kid said.
“How much?”
“Seven fifty.”
Shit. It had cost him two hundred and fifty thousand to convert the gold. “When will the IDs be ready?”
“At least two more days,” the kid said. “It’s the passport. They got so much electronic shit in ’em these days to prevent forgeries, you gotta steal a real one and modify it, and it ain’t easy.”
“Yeah, I understand,” Otis said—no point taking out his frustration on the kid. “What about the boat?” Otis asked. One of the things he’d asked Goldman to do was arrange for a boat to take him to Costa Rica. It would drop him off at a marina where he wouldn’t have to deal with customs.
“All set. You can take off as soon as the ID is ready.”
When he reached Costa Rica, the first thing he’d do was find a competent doctor to fix his knee. Then he’d decide if he wanted to stay there or move on to someplace else.
He didn’t know how long he’d have to wait before it would be safe to come back to the States. He’d have to wait for the cops to give up on their investigation into the K Street job. Then he should probably get new IDs for his whole family and move them out of Virginia. Then he’d form a new crew; other than restoring old cars, being a thief was the only thing he knew how to do.
“Sol will let you know when the IDs are ready,” the kid said. The kid turned and walked away, and, as he did, Otis looked up at the good-looking young redhead smoking on the second-floor landing, which made him wonder if his daughter had stopped smoking after Ginnie’s “intervention.”
• • •
KAY SAW THE Hispanic kid walk into the pool area carrying a shopping bag. He was good-looking, tall, lithe, and graceful. He stopped and she could see him look down at someone, talking. The wall surrounding the pool prevented her from seeing who the kid was talking to, but she guessed it was Otis. Ten minutes later, the kid left and he was no longer holding the shopping bag.
• • •
BECKMAN SAW THE Hispanic kid—he was actually kinda hot—hand a shopping bag to Otis. She had no idea what the kid could be bringing Otis, but she went back inside to update Prescott anyway.
• • •
PRESCOTT FIGURED THAT the Hispanic kid worked for Sol Goldman and was bringing Otis either cash or new identity documents. But it didn’t matter.
“Where’s the woman?” Prescott asked.
“Still sitting in her car. Every once in a while, she leaves and walks around a bit. It’s hot here and she’s gotta be baking inside that car. She’s not running the engine, so she doesn’t have the air conditioner on.”
Prescott couldn’t care less about Kay Hamilton’s discomfort—but it was time to move this drama forward.
“What kind of car is she driving?”
“A silver Ford Fusion,” Beckman said.
“Okay, here’s what I want you to do,” Prescott said.
• • •
KAY SAW THE young redhead from the second floor enter the pool area. She could see her upper body over the top of the low wall, but then the woman sat down and disappeared.
• • •
OTIS WATCHED THE redhead walk toward him. She was a looker, and he was hoping she’d take off her shorts and T-shirt and strip down to a tiny bikini. He was surprised—and pleased—when the woman sat in the lounge chair nearest to his, and then scooted her chair over so she was closer to him.
Otis had committed many sins in his life, but adultery wasn’t one of them. But he could still flirt with the redhead.
As soon as the woman sat down, she stuck out a hand holding a cell phone.
“Take the phone, Mr. Otis,” she said. “There’s someone who needs to speak to you.” And Otis thought: What the fuck is going on? How does she know my name?
“Who are you?” Otis said.
She was still holding the phone, her slim arm stretched out so he could reach it. “Mr. Otis,” she said, “take the phone.”
Otis took the phone and held it up to his ear. “Hello?” he said. He sounded scared—and he was.
“Listen carefully, Mr. Otis.”
It was a woman speaking, and she sounded older. He didn’t recognize her voice.
“I’m an associate of the man you know as John,” the woman said. “Kay Hamilton is parked across the street from your motel. She’s driving a silver Ford Fusion and she’s wearing a black wig, sunglasses, and a Miami Heat baseball cap. She’s there to kill you.”
“Who are you?” Otis said again.
“I told you. I’m a friend of John’s. Now, you don’t have to take my advice, but I’d suggest that you kill her before she kills you. What you could do is drive to somewhere remote—she’ll follow you—and take her out before she takes you out. Good luck, Mr. Otis.”
The woman hung up. Otis didn’t know what to do, and while he was thinking, the redhead took the phone from his hand and left the pool area.
What the fuck was going on? How did John know where he was? And how had Hamilton found him? And how did the mysterious caller know where he was? In spite of all the precautions he’d taken, everyone seemed to know where he was.
But he didn’t have time to worry about it. What he needed to do now was clear. He needed to take care of Hamilton.
• • •
BECKMAN RETURNED TO HER MOTEL ROOM, and her phone rang. It was Prescott.
“I want you to return to headquarters,” Prescott said.
“What? You mean I’m finished here?”
“Exactly. You did your job, you did it well, and now I want you to return to base. Immediately.”
37
DAY 6—1 P.M.
Otis packed his clothes and cash into the gym bag he’d bought when he purchased his clothes. He had over one
point seven million dollars—which wasn’t going to do him much good if Hamilton killed him. He needed to do something with the money before he dealt with Hamilton.
• • •
KAY WATCHED OTIS LEAVE HIS ROOM. Thank God! He was finally going somewhere, maybe someplace where he’d be alone. She was surprised when he drove to a FedEx store. He entered the store, and a couple of minutes later, he came back out carrying a shipping box. What was he shipping and who was he shipping it to? He opened the back door of his pickup, but Kay couldn’t see what he was doing.
• • •
OTIS COUNTED OUT A MILLION DOLLARS and placed the money in the FedEx box. He sealed it and took it to the clerk at the desk. When the kid asked if he wanted to insure the package, Otis almost laughed and said, “Yeah, for a million fuckin’ bucks.”
The kid gave him his copy of the shipping papers; if he was still alive tomorrow, he’d check to make sure the package had made it to Ginnie. He still had seven fifty for himself, which should be enough to hold him over.
Now he needed to find the right spot to take care of Hamilton.
• • •
KAY WAS PRACTICALLY TINGLING WITH EXCITEMENT.
Otis drove the streets of Miami for a while and eventually got on Highway 27, going past Hialeah. He stayed on 27 until he was going due north, passing along the eastern edge of the Everglades Wildlife area.
When 27 intersected I-75, he got onto 75. Interstate 75, known as Alligator Alley, runs due west across Florida, terminating on the west coast near the city of Naples. The highway was as flat as a pancake passing through the Everglades, the view consisting mostly of swampy saw grass and cypress trees. It was called Alligator Alley for a reason. All along the road, behind cyclone fences, were gators, their heads barely visible above the water. They gave Kay the creeps. But the fences didn’t always contain the critters and they often ended up on the highway, scaring or thrilling tourists. Where was Otis going?
• • •
OTIS WAS JUST DRIVING, looking for the right place. And then he saw it: a rest area on I-75. He slowed down a little, but not too much. He glanced into his rearview mirror for the thousandth time: Hamilton in the silver Fusion was still behind him. Good.
He pulled off at the next exit and headed back to Miami. Now it was just a matter of waiting until nightfall.
38
DAY 6—8:30 P.M.
As the light was fading from the sky, Kay watched Otis leave his room, again carrying the gym bag. He obviously wanted to keep it close to him. He pulled out of the motel parking lot and Kay gave him a one block lead.
This time, Otis didn’t drive aimlessly around the city. He drove directly to Highway 27, then merged onto I-75.
Otis could only see headlights behind him, but he knew Hamilton was there. Forty minutes after he left the motel, he came to the rest area on I-75.
The rest area consisted of a grass strip with a few picnic tables and a small cinder-block building. It was dark; the lights illuminating the parking lot and the restrooms had been turned off because it was temporarily closed to the public. It was undergoing some sort of renovation or repair. When he’d driven past the place earlier in the day, he’d seen stacks of cinder blocks, lumber, and plastic pipe enclosed in a small fenced-in area with a locked gate. He’d also seen a large backhoe. There was a large wooden sign in the middle of the access road stating the rest area was closed, but Otis just drove around it, the Tundra’s big tires biting into the shoulder of the road.
He parked and got out of his car as fast as he could and stepped behind the big backhoe; there was no way Hamilton would be able to see him.
• • •
KAY SAW THE TUNDRA’S TAILLIGHTS leave the highway. She slowed down, and when the Tundra stopped moving, Kay immediately pulled to the side of the road, parking on the narrow shoulder of I-75. She reached into the bag she’d brought with her and pulled out the night-vision binoculars.
Otis had driven around the sign blocking the access road. She trained the binoculars on the Tundra, but couldn’t see him. He must have gotten out of the truck. She scanned the rest area more closely and could see a backhoe, a small enclosure containing a bundle of plastic pipe, and the low concrete building. Why had he pulled into this place?
She was almost positive—almost being the operative word—that Otis didn’t know she was following him. There was no way he could have known that she’d placed the cell phone in his truck. But why had he stopped at the closed rest area? Was he planning to bury the gold she had seen at Billy’s place on the river? No, that didn’t make much sense.
Whatever the case, if she wanted to make Otis pay for killing Callahan’s people, this was the time and place to do it.
She removed the black wig and the Miami Heat ball cap—she didn’t need a disguise anymore—jacked a round into her Glock, and stepped out of her car. She left her car on the shoulder of 75 and walked in. Carefully.
• • •
ENTERING THE REST AREA was like entering a box canyon. There were a few trees near the picnic benches but there was no place to hide along the access road. The only advantage Kay had was the darkness, and the best thing she could do was move quickly.
It was about two hundred yards from the highway to Otis’s truck, which was parked near a large backhoe. When she reached it, she stayed behind the truck, breathing harder than she liked.
The only way Kay could get behind the restroom building—which is where she suspected Otis was—was to take the rough, muddy path between it and the backhoe. She looked through the night-vision binoculars again, but she didn’t see anything except the big machine. She started forward and accidently kicked a small rock. Shit! She immediately stopped.
• • •
HAMILTON WAS THERE; Otis heard her. She was near his truck, probably waiting for him to show himself. Then he had an idea: one of the oldest tricks in the book.
Very carefully, and very quietly, he searched the ground until he found a good-sized rock, a bit larger than a baseball. He transferred his gun to his left hand, and threw the rock over the building. It was perfect: You could hear it hit the vegetation behind the building but it was just a slight noise, like something moving through the brush.
• • •
KAY HEARD A NOISE from behind the building, which is where she’d thought Otis might be. She started to move forward, then stopped and looked through the night-vision binoculars again—and smiled.
• • •
OTIS WAS WAITING, the .45 in his right hand, the cane in his left. He knew that Hamilton would have to walk right past him, and when she did, he’d shoot her. He wondered what the hell was taking her so long. Then he found out.
“Otis, drop the gun.”
Shit! Instead of walking past the backhoe, she had sneaked around it and come up behind him. Without turning to look at her, Otis asked, “How’d you know where I was?”
“Night-vision binoculars. I saw your feet under the backhoe. Now drop the gun.”
Fucking night vision. It had never occurred to him that she’d have that sort of equipment.
He lowered the gun so that it was beside his leg, but he didn’t drop it. He turned slowly.
“Drop the gun!” she said.
He didn’t drop the gun. He completed the turn so that he was facing her; her blond hair almost created a halo around her head in the darkness. But she was definitely no angel.
“Goddamnit, Otis, drop the gun!”
He wasn’t going to let her take him. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life in a cage. He had quick hands; all he had to do was flex his wrist and fire. And he remembered the way she’d hesitated when she should have shot Shirley. All he needed was a millisecond of hesitation.
Otis must have done something—but all he knew was that he’d barely moved his hand when she shot him.
• �
�� •
“DAMN IT,” KAY SAID SOFTLY. “Why didn’t you just drop the gun, Otis?” She hadn’t wanted to kill him before she had a chance to question him.
She kicked the .45 out of his right hand and knelt down beside him. She’d hit him in the middle of the chest. She knew he was going to die, but there was one thing she needed to know.
“Who told you I was coming for you, Otis? Who told you?”
Otis didn’t answer.
Otis was dead.
Kay needed to get moving. With the night-vision goggles, she found the shell casing ejected from her Glock. She picked up the .45 that Otis had been holding and put it in her back pocket. She searched his pockets and removed his wallet and cell phone. She walked back to Otis’s truck and grabbed the gym bag from the front seat. She also removed the NSA phone she’d planted. She’d toss it into the Everglades later. She opened the glove box and removed the registration and insurance information. That would slow the cops down a little. Lastly, she used the bottom of her T-shirt to wipe her fingerprints off the truck.
She walked quickly back to her car. She wasn’t worried about being arrested for Otis’s murder. The police would have a hard time proving she’d ever been in Miami, and she was sure that nobody had seen her shoot him. There weren’t any houses around, just cars zooming down Alligator Alley.
When she reached her car, she finally looked inside the gym bag. Just as she’d expected, there was a shitload of cash, but it didn’t look like as much as she’d seen on the coffee table at Billy’s place. Maybe Simpson had the rest. Whatever the case, it was still a lot.
She started to head back to the airport where the charter plane was still waiting for her. In an hour, she’d be out of Florida. As she was driving, she thought about the question she’d asked Otis: Who told you I was coming for you? The answer was obvious. Other than Eli, the only one who could have known she would go to Florida was Olivia Prescott.
• • •
THE OLD BULL ALLIGATOR smelled blood and he crept forward on his clawed, webbed feet. The thing that bled wasn’t moving. He grabbed it by one of its limbs and began pulling it toward the swamp. He had some difficulty getting it through the gap in the fence, but he was strong and kept tugging and tugging until it was through the gap. The old bull would shove it under the water, beneath a fallen cypress log, and when it was nice and ripe in a few days, he’d gorge himself.
