by Ed Kovacs
“What the hell,” I said, pulling him to his feet and leading him across the street.
We joined the team in the vacant building. Fred Gaudet quickly attached a transmitting microphone inside Decon’s shirt pocket. Before Honey or Harding could get in a word, Decon’s cell phone rang. We all went quiet as he answered it on speakerphone.
“Go ahead.”
“Drive to Causeway Bridge. Right now. You have four minute get to bridge. I call you fifteen minute.”
The Chinese male voice belonged to Ding Tong.
I shook my head no to Decon.
“No. Meet me at the food court of the Clearview Mall. I told you we would do the deal in Metairie, man,” said Decon into the phone.
The line went dead.
“This is not good,” said Honey. “Call him back.”
Decon called, but it went unanswered. I gestured and he terminated the call.
“What did he mean we have four minutes to get onto the bridge? Or what happens—the deal is off?” asked Harding.
“He’s trying to take control, that’s all,” said Decon. “I need some water.”
“Over there,” said Harding.
Decon slouched off toward a table with coffee, snacks and beverages.
“Can we get the FBI chopper over to the North Shore, Harding?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s standing by at Belle Chasse.” Harding stole a look over at Decon. “Is he in any kind of shape to do this?”
“Yeah, he’s okay.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Honey. “And we have no elements on the North Shore. The whole team is here. We going to string all our assets along a twenty-four mile long bridge? I say we abort.”
“What do we have to lose? We’re not risking the real sample,” I countered. “All we’re trying to do is get video and audio of these guys handing over money and committing espionage. We get that, and we have their asses behind bars, with a live media feed and the State Department has to declare Chu and Tong persona non grata. It’s not much of a punishment, but it’s something. Otherwise they get to keep running amok all over the country.”
“We have lives at risk. In case you forgot,” fumed Honey.
“The risk is the same regardless of where we do this,” I countered.
“We already have video of Tong checking the GIDEON sample with a Niton gun. We have him on tape, talking about the buy. Talking about giving money to get the formula. That’s good enough, since we’re not trying for a conviction in court,” said Honey.
“Yes we have some video, but it would be much stronger,” I said, “if we could take Chu and Tong into custody with money from the Bank of China. That would be incontrovertibly damning.”
“It’s too dangerous,” said Honey.
“Has anyone seen Chu or Tong pull a weapon? Do we have reason to believe they would do that? Decon is wearing a vest. And all of us, backing him up, will be seconds away,” I said. I could see Honey wasn’t having any of it. “You saw the moving van at Pelkov’s; the rats are deserting a sinking ship. And speaking of ships, port police tell me that Haddad has pulled anchor and set sail. We need to take Tong and Chu into custody now. This is our last chance.”
“Better decide,” said Kendall. “Clock down to two minutes, thirty seconds.”
“Agent Harding, this is your show,” I said.
All eyes turned to Harding. But before she could speak—
“Where did Decon go?” asked Fred Gaudet.
Decon wasn’t in the room. I bolted for the back door with every ounce of speed I could muster, ignoring a world of pain shooting up my legs.
Somehow I was first into the rear parking lot and saw my brown surveillance van pulling away. I angled for the parking lot entrance and managed to grab hold of the van’s rear door handle and pulled myself onto the bumper. As the van turned onto Edenborn, I got the door open and stumbled inside as I heard shouts coming from the parking lot behind me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Decon ran the light as he hung a screeching right on to West Esplanade. I hung on for dear life as he then executed a careening left turn onto Causeway Boulevard, narrowly avoiding about three collisions.
I pulled the 1911A and carefully crawled up toward the cab. “You’ve done a little time as a wheel man,” I said, pointing the weapon in his general direction.
“I’ve done a little time as everything.”
“The way these things usually work is, a final decision to go is made, and then we depart in an orderly fashion.”
“Too much dissension in there. Makes me nervous. If I bolt, you guys follow, the operation goes forward. Wham bam thank you ma’am.”
I figured backup was thirty seconds behind. If the approach to the bridge was being monitored, the cavalry wouldn’t be obvious. No one was driving Crown Vics or easy-to-identify LE vehicles.
“Thank you for trusting me,” he said.
“That comment was made before you stole my van.”
We shot past a semi-trailer and made it on to the bridge with seven seconds to spare. I glanced out the rear windows and saw something that caused an instant knot in my gut. The semi we had just passed jack-knifed, blocking the northbound lanes onto the bridge. Before I could even compute this, another semi performed the same function, blocking the southbound lanes and preventing traffic from exiting or entering the Metairie side of the Causeway Bridge.
Backup had just been cut off.
“Rover One, Homebody, do you copy?” Honey’s voice on the radio-set speaker was showing more emotion than she usually displayed over the air. I put on a wireless headset with a mike boom.
“Copy, Homebody. We’re Code Four here. I saw what just happened. Stand by.”
I leaned forward into the cab.
“Semi’s have blocked off the bridge behind us. Both trestles.”
“Impressive,” Decon said, pushing the old van along at an even seventy MPH. The high-rises on the South Shore were already shrinking rapidly in the distance.
“We’re aborting. You and me.”
“Can’t believe those Chinese didn’t trust me,” said Decon.
“I think they trust you have the real deal. And they want it bad. Do a U-turn at the first crossover.”
The Lake Pontchartrain Causeway Bridge was a divided-highway bridge that ran two lanes in each direction, supported by nine thousand concrete pilings. The guardrails stood about two feet high, and woozy drivers managed to flip their vehicles over the rails and into the churning waters of the lake on a fairly regular basis. An eighty-foot gap separated the north and southbound lanes, exposing the dark waters below. Technically the Causeway was two distinct bridges—twin spans—sitting side-by-side. Seven connecting crossovers on the twenty-four mile span were reserved for disabled cars and trucks and functioned as staging areas for emergency vehicles. The first crossover was seven miles out onto Lake Pontchartrain.
I conferred with Honey and told her we’d be heading back. The bridgehead had been secured, but both semi-truck drivers had escaped on motorcycles. The trucks belonged to TDF, which was no great shock.
I was about to climb into the front with Decon when I started to get a bad feeling.
“If you were the Chinese, would you even want us to get to the North Shore?”
Eyes forward, Decon answered with eerie calm. “I just started thinking the same thing.”
“You figure a boat?”
“Could be a combination. Vehicles blocking the lanes up ahead, a boat waiting below. Twenty feet down on a rope ladder in no time.”
“Stop the van; throw it into reverse,” I said.
“What’s that going to solve?”
“Putting your ass on the line with only me backing you up is not an option. You said yourself that a baby hamster could kick my ass.”
“I said a mama gerbil. Are you a good shot?”
“Very good, but that’s beside the point.”
“I dunno. I’d kind of like to take these assholes on,
you know? I mean, who the hell do they think they are?”
Who the hell do they think they are, indeed. Decon had once said that he and I had more in common that I realized. Once again, he was proving to be right.
“Rover One, copy.”
“Go ahead, Homebody,” I said.
“Bridge Police report more semis jack-knifing at the eight-mile marker, blocking both north and southbound lanes.”
“Yeah, we figured out we weren’t going to see Mandeville tonight.”
“Jefferson Parish sheriffs are launching boats right now. Air support should be on scene in ten mikes.”
“Roger that.” I checked my watch. Ten mikes—ten minutes until backup arrived; an eternity if things went south. “I’m going live with continuous video and audio feed. Out.” I flipped some switches that activated the transmitters. “Decon, stop the truck right here.”
“That’s not you talking; that’s your hot partner. She likes me, you know, can’t help herself. The FBI babe—I’m not her cup of tea.”
“Your microphone is live; they’re monitoring this radio traffic.”
“Good. Because what I’m saying is true. See I think you and me make good partners. Screw the rules and just get the shit done. That’s been my way since forever. And so I was tolerated because I delivered the goods.”
“What goods? Tolerated by whom?”
He glanced at me. “If we make it through tonight, I’ll tell you all about myself.”
“Just stop the truck. You can do a three-point turn and we’ll drive back. We have nothing to sell the Chinese, since we left the fake sample back in Fat City.”
“Actually, I do have something. And dude, the crossover is less than a mile ahead. I’ll pull a U-ie. We’re good.”
I somehow doubted that.
“What something do you have to sell?”
“I’m asking you to keep trusting me. You won’t regret it.”
I shook my head. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“You got a piece?” I asked.
“No.”
I wordlessly handed him my 1911A; he stuck it into his rear waistband. I pulled a big Glock 21 from a cabinet and popped a pre-loaded thirty-round mag brimming with 230-grain Black Hills jacketed hollow points in my preferred caliber of .45. The mag protruded way out from the bottom of the butt and added a lot of weight to the piece, but the high-capacity mag made it a nice equalizer. Who needs an MP-5 when you can use your sidearm to put thirty high-caliber rounds on target as fast as you can pull the trigger?
The deserted crossover lay just ahead. It was eerie to be on the normally busy bridge but to have no traffic in either direction. It reminded me of the days after the Storm, when the I-10 twin spans over the lake were out of commission—huge sections had collapsed into the water—and the Causeway’s southbound lanes were shut but the northbound trestle stayed open for emergency traffic in both directions. The sense that big things were amiss felt palpable then, as they did right now.
“Slow down.”
He slowed the van. There was no sign of a boat, vehicle, or living thing in any direction. Heavy chop from stiff winds whipped the salty waters into an undulating malevolence; I wouldn’t want to be out on the lake in a small craft tonight. The lights of Mandeville on the North Shore glowed as only a taunting hint on the horizon. Decon was about to start the turn when a tremendous roar enveloped us. Dust and litter blew at the windshield and the van rocked as wind gusts buffeted the panels.
“Damn, it’s a helicopter,” I said.
“That’s no helicopter.”
Decon stopped the van, and a plane landed in front of us on the wide crossover in a maelstrom of swirling grit. It was a twin-engine fixed-wing plane, but it landed like a helicopter. I ducked down to stay out of sight but could see that it was a tilt-rotor plane. Not a Harrier jet, but a V-22 Osprey, the problem-plagued VTOL craft—Vertical Take Off and Landing—that the marines had fought long and hard for. Ospreys can either fly like a helicopter or a fixed-wing turboprop airplane. This one was painted black with no markings of any kind. There was room to spare for the fifty-five-foot-long craft to land on the deserted crossover.
“That’s an Osprey, except it’s not marked. Civilians don’t fly that bird, I can tell you that, if you understand my meaning.”
I nodded. “Someone wants the GIDEON goods in a big way.”
The crossover was well-lit. We were no more than twenty-five yards away, close enough to see the pilot’s face in the large cockpit windows. He was Asian. Then Ding Tong appeared in the Osprey’s side door holding a Niton gun.
“How the hell did the Chinese get their hands on an Osprey?” asked Decon.
“I’ll give you a one-word answer: cash. Last chance. Throw it in reverse. No harm, no foul.”
“Oh, hell no.” He grabbed his small backpack off the seat and then turned to me. “I’m real sorry I have to do this, but it’s for your own safety.”
And then he sucker punched me. Hard. I fell back onto the rear floor of the van. My vision clouded over with bright points of light. I blinked, fighting hard to stay conscious. I tried to think, to concentrate, but my head wouldn’t stop spinning and I couldn’t get up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Hard to say exactly, I was down for maybe ten seconds when I heard somebody talking over the headset, and it helped me focus. I rolled over and got to my knees.
“Rover One, Homebody, copy?”
“Go ahead,” I managed to say, adjusting the placement of my headset.
“Be advised, the bird is ETA six mikes.”
Six minutes. “Roger.” I shook my head, trying to clear my thinking. “Listen, Ospreys can outrun helicopters and have a longer range. You might want to get on the horn to the Louisiana Air National Guard over at Belle Chasse. Out.”
Still shaky, I looked at the video screen in the back of the van; no one had come out of the plane except Tong. He held the Niton gun in one hand and a carry bag in the other. He and Decon were just about face-to-face. Decon was up to something; he hadn’t just slugged me for my own “safety.” And now I was reduced to listening via the microphone he wore and watching on a video screen in the back of the van. I felt isolated from the action and didn’t like that at all. The rear doors to the van were angled away from the Osprey. My headset was wireless; I could quietly ease out onto the bridge and listen to the deal go down, poised to intervene.
So I slipped out the back doors and listened via my headset as they shouted in order to be heard above the churning rotors.
“Where is sample?” Tong sounded royally pissed.
“In Metairie, where I said I’d meet you, brother. Doing it out here—this is kind’a kooky.”
I chanced a peek around the rear bumper. Decon held the backpack in his left hand. Tong mumbled something in Chinese, probably communicating the situation to whomever was inside the Osprey. I assumed that would be Chu.
“You have my money in that bag, right? Because I have something you want.”
I watched, listening with the headphones on, as Decon slowly reached into the backpack and pulled out a laptop. From this distance it was hard to tell, but it looked similar to Del Breaux’s laptop. What the hell was he doing? I specifically told him to keep the laptop issue out of the equation. Then I saw the brilliance in the move. The Niton gun would have revealed the sample as a fake; it would have pissed Tong off, and we would have had to take him down in a confrontation. That was understood and we had planned for that. But the laptop would have to be vetted later, after a hacker obtained the password. Video and audio were recording the Chinese attempting to commit espionage by taking the computer. Money would change hands, Tong would take possession of the bogus laptop, I would step out with the artillery to make an arrest, and we’d all go home safe. Except Decon had tried to knock me out. Meaning he wasn’t on board for my plan or intending to take anyone into custody. I could only assume he was going to kill them.
“This is the same one I got from th
at cop’s truck when I took the metal sample, you know what I mean? I’m betting that formula you want is inside,” said Decon to Tong.
I saw Tong quickly examine the laptop, open it and power up.
“What is password?” asked Tong.
“Brother man, I don’t know the password. How am I supposed to know that? You guys are smart; you can figure it out. You want the sample, we got to go back to Metairie. But I do got me one of these here pens, like I told you about, you know, so I can be sure the long green in your bag is the real deal.”
Tong handed Decon the money bag, then barked something in Chinese. Two Asian men scrambled out of the Osprey and made for the van, probably to check inside for the GIDEON sample because they thought Decon was lying about its location. When they saw all the electronics in the back of the van, the game would be up.
“Money all there. You count in plane. We go Metairie now.”
As I watched, Tong started to pull him toward the plane. I had to act fast; the two Chinese goons, one of whom who was a good six foot tall, were almost to the van.
I stood and stepped into the open. “Police officer! Stop right there, you’re under arrest!” I held the big, ammo-heavy Glock in my weak-side hand, pointing right at them. My banged-up right hand held the gold shield for the bad guys to see.
But damn it if they didn’t both go for their guns.
“Stop! Don’t move!”
Just before tunnel vision kicked in, I was aware that Decon was watching me confront the goons. He broke away from Tong while clutching the money bag. Tong made a perfect toss of the laptop into the Osprey’s doorway, where it was caught by none other than Tan Chu. Tong then bolted after Decon.
