Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1)

by Randall Reneau

  “Sanitize the elevator,” the chauffeur ordered. “Make sure you pick up your brass and wipe everything down. No finger- prints, no blood. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ve got it,” the shooter replied, holding out an open palm with the two shell casings. “This ain’t my first hit.”

  The chauffeur nodded and opened the driver’s side door. “Disappear. The rest of your dough will be wired to your account.”

  The chauffeur headed for the docks. The Pantelli family owned a fleet of offshore oil rig service boats, and Mr. Wu was scheduled to take a short cruise, one way. The limo pulled into the service company warehouse and stopped. Two rough- looking longshoreman types walked up to the driver’s door.

  “The package is in the trunk,” the chauffeur told the two men. “Put the whole mess in a fifty-five-gallon drum. Seal it and then load it on the Konny Kay. She’s due to shove off in about an hour.”

  With Mr. Wu safely on board, the Konny Kay put to sea. When the boat reached the one-hundred-fathom contour, the captain cut the engines and signaled to a deck-hand. Two minutes later a single fifty-five-gallon drum rolled off the boat’s stern, like a World War II depth charge.

  Chapter 65

  Chang was worried. He should have had confirmation from Wu by now. He flipped his cell phone open and called Al Pantelli.

  “Mr. Pantelli, Lei Chang, here. Has my courier shown up?”

  Al wagged his index finger at Pino and silently mouthed the word “Chang.”

  “No, sir, he hasn’t showed up yet.”

  “That’s odd. The charter landed on time, in New Orleans.”

  “Well, maybe they had car trouble, or an accident,” Al said, barely able to control his mirth.

  “No, my man would have called immediately.”

  “Of course. Well, I’ll have him call you the moment he shows up.”

  “Please do so, Mr. Pantelli. And for your sake, I hope there are no problems.”

  Al looked at the dead courier’s aluminum brief-case sitting on his desk.

  “Well, New Orleans can be a pretty rough town. Especially if you’re carrying a lot of cash.”

  “I warn you, Mr. Pantelli. You’d better hope nothing’s happened to my courier, or my cash.”

  “You should be careful how you talk to me, Mr. Chang. This ain’t Hong Kong, and you ain’t Bruce Lee.”

  Cyrus and I landed at Louis Armstrong in New Orleans and waited in the terminal for Jim’s plane to arrive. We’d just ordered a couple of cokes when my cell phone started vibrating. It was Jim.

  “We’re in the west gate area at the Café Beignet.”

  “Okay, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  I looked over at Cyrus. “Jim’s on his way.”

  “Good deal. The sooner we get this done, the better.”

  “Second thoughts on trouble with the Pantellis?”

  “No, it’s Chang that keeps bothering me. Why wouldn’t he trump IUC’s offer. Hell, it’s chump change to them.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m thinking the same thing. Who knows? Maybe the Pantellis don’t like the Chicoms any better than we do?”

  Jim walked into the café and over to our table.

  “Why the long faces, fellas?” Jim asked.

  “Neither one of us can figure out why URAN-China didn’t top your offer. Hell, you know Al was on the phone with Chang ten seconds after he got your offer.”

  “I’ve got to admit I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Jim replied. “Maybe Chang refused to be worked.”

  I looked at Cyrus. “Yeah, maybe. But I think Chang wants the Sullivan uranium reserves, and I don’t think money is an issue.”

  Jim nodded in agreement. “Well, all I know is, I’ve got a cashier’s check for five point six million. And it’s made out to Albert A. Pantelli, so let’s go buy some shares.”

  We grabbed a cab and headed to the Pantelli’s’ office building in the French Quarter.

  “Does Al know Cyrus and I are coming with you?” I asked.

  “Nope,” Jim replied. “I thought we’d surprise him.”

  Cyrus turned from his seat in the front of the cab. “I think it was a good move, Jim. Three witnesses are a lot better than one, in any scenario.”

  The cab dropped us off in front of the Pantelli’s office building, in the Quarter.

  “Al’s office is on the third floor,” Cyrus said, as he handed the cabbie a twenty.

  We took the elevator and followed Cyrus down the hall to Al’s office. Cyrus knocked and we walked in. Al’s secretary was not in the office, and Al’s door was open.

  “Come on in, boys,” Al said, in a booming voice. “I see you brought the cavalry with you, Jim.”

  “Well, IUC’s about to become a major stakeholder in Montana Creek Mining so I thought the CEO should be here. And as Cyrus needs to transfer his proxy, I invited him to come along as well. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Hell, no. Come on in. Fix yourselves a drink and have a seat. I asked my secretary to take the day off. I don’t like to transact serious business in front of the hired help.”

  “Not a problem,” Jim replied.

  “Crown and coke okay for everybody?” I asked. Cyrus and Jim both nodded. “How about you, Al?”

  “I’ve got a gin and tonic going, Trace,” Al replied. “But thanks just the same.”

  With drinks in hand, we all took a seat.

  “I’ve got your cashier’s check, Al,” Jim said, opening his brief-case. Do you have the stock certificates and stock power ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Al replied, opening the center drawer of his desk and pulling out a manila envelope.

  “Do you mind if I examine the certificates and the stock power?” Jim asked. “I just need to be sure everything is properly executed and that your signature has been properly guaranteed.”

  “Sure,” Al replied, handing the manila envelope to Jim.

  While Jim checked the signatures on the stock powers, I figured it was a good time to ask about Chang. “Al, I’m surprised URAN-China Nuclear didn’t buy your shares. Surely you must have given them the opportunity to beat IUC’s offer.”

  “I did, but Chang wouldn’t budge. And, all things being equal, I’d much rather deal with the Australians than the damn Chinese.”

  I glanced quickly at Cyrus and then turned back to Al.

  “I see. Well I’m glad you took Jim’s offer. Acquiring your shares will make IUC a very significant shareholder in our company.”

  “Second only to you, I’d guess.” Al said with a laugh. “So everybody wins, except for the commies.”

  “Everything is in order, Mr. Pantelli,” Jim said, sliding the certificates and stock power back into the envelope. “Here is your check,” Jim said, standing up and handing Al the cashier’s check. “I think that concludes our business here, gentlemen.”

  Al rose from his chair, took the check, folded it, and put it in his shirt pocket. “I thought you all might want to have dinner to celebrate. At least have a few drinks in one of New Orleans’s finest clubs?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Pantelli,” Jim replied. “I have to get back to Australia as soon as possible. My board wants an update on our investment in Montana Creek Mining. So it will have to be thank you, and good luck to you in your future ventures.”

  We all shook hands with Al and left his office. Once in the elevator, Cyrus couldn’t contain himself. “Damn fine work, Jim. You certainly took care of business, and got us the hell out of there.”

  “Well, sometimes you have to do business with the devil, but you don’t have to muck about. Get in, get out, and move on.”

  “Amen, brother,” I said, exhaling softly.

  The elevator door opened, and we exited the building and hailed a passing cab.

  “Eight thirty six, Gravier Street,” Jim told the cabbie. “Hope you fellows don’t mind a little detour. IUC keeps a securities account with Jackson-Steinman. They have an office here, and I’d like to deposit these shares into our a
ccount. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “No worries, mate,” I said, in my best Aussie accent. “Take your time. Our plane doesn’t leave until late this afternoon.”

  “Ah, there is one other small detail,” Cyrus interjected.

  “Oh, yes, the transfer of your voting proxy,” Jim said, reaching into his briefcase and removing a second manila envelope. “If you’ll just execute this proxy transfer, I have a check made out to you in the amount of two hundred twenty thousand US dollars. I assume a twenty-thousand-dollar profit, is satisfactory?”

  “You bet, and thank you, Jim.”

  *****

  Al Pantelli walked down to his brother’s office. “Deal’s done, little brother,” Al said, taking the check out of his pocket and handing it to Pino

  Pino whistled softly. “Man, that’s a lot of zeros.”

  “Yeah, and that’s exactly what we’ll be if we don’t get out of here. Is the plane ready to go?”

  “I just need to pre-flight and top off the tanks.”

  Pino had been flying for years and had worked his way up to a multi-engine-instrument rating. Two years ago he’d talked Al into buying a King Air 350 turbo-prop. He’d have them in George Town, Grand Cayman, in time for a late supper.

  Both men had told their wives they’d be gone on an extended business trip to the Caribbean. The women knew what that meant. It wasn’t their first rodeo, either.

  Pino got one of his people to drive him and Al to Louis Armstrong International. They kept the King Air in a hangar in the general aviation section. Ironically, not too far from where Wu had deplaned a few days earlier.

  Al and Pino grabbed their gear and told the driver to take the Caddy back to the office and park it in Al’s slot.

  “Come on, Al. Let’s store our gear, and I’ll get her pre-flighted and fueled.”

  “Don’t worry, brother,” Al said, patting the aluminum brief case. “If we forget anything, I think we can cover it.”

  Pino laughed. “Yeah, I would say so. You’ve got the cashier’s check, too?”

  “Yep, it’s in my pocket. I’ll deposit it in our Butterfield account in the morning.”

  “Are we going to have a problem with Cayman customs?” We’re carrying a hell of a lot of cash.”

  “Nope, I’ve arranged for one of the senior customs guys to clear us through. He’s on our pad.”

  The two men loaded their gear into the plane, and Pino taxied over to the fueling area.

  “We’ll top her off, then I’ll finish the pre-flight. We’ll be wheels up in thirty. How long do you think we’ll have to lay low?”

  “Maybe six months, maybe less. The feds are going to have a hell of a time tracking the skim. Even if they get to Black Chip. Hell, it’s owned by a number of offshore companies and trusts. They’ll have to do a lot of digging to get all the way down to us.”

  Pino chuckled. “Yeah, I think we covered out tracks pretty damn good. And besides, I could use a little vacation. It’s too bad we won’t be around to see the look on Chang’s face when he figures out he got fucked.”

  “What’s he going to do?” Al replied. “He can’t go to the police. Hell, there’s nothing in writing, and how does he explain sending five mil in cash to the Outfit? Are you kidding me? It’ll smell like a drug deal gone south. Old Chicom Chang, ain’t got a fuckin’ prayer.”

  Pino was watching the technician fueling the wing tanks. He turned to Al. “He could decide to play hardball.”

  “He could. But if he does, we’ll hit him so fuckin’ hard, he’ll no longer be a problem. Capisce?”

  Pino nodded and glanced out the pilot-side cockpit window at the man fueling the plane.

  “Al, lean over here and take a look at the guy fueling the plane. Does he look familiar to you?”

  Al leaned over, trying to get his bulk between Pino and the yoke.

  “He does remind me of somebody I’ve seen before. But I can’t place him.”

  The technician topped off the port wing tank and secured the cap. He looked up and saw Pino and Al looking at him. He gave them a thumbs-up and smiled.

  “Did you see that?” Pino asked.

  “See what?”

  “The shit-eating grin that guy gave us. It was the kind of grin you give somebody when you know something they don’t.”

  “Relax, he’s probably some kind of idiot. Fueling planes all day long doesn’t require a PhD.”

  The fuel truck pulled away, and Pino got up from the pilot’s seat.

  “Where you going, little brother?”

  “I’m going to check the fuel for water.”

  “Water? You think that little prick is working for Chang?”

  “Hell, anything’s possible.”

  Al scratched his head. “Jesus, I don’t think he could be on to us this fast.” He paused for a moment. “But go ahead and check the fuel.”

  Pino went aft, opened the cabin door, and lowered the stairway. As he walked to the port-side wing, he took a small four-ounce glass vial from his shirt pocket. Kneeling at the edge of the wing, he depressed the fuel sump release and drained about three ounces of Jet-A fuel into the vial. He let the fuel settle for a couple of minutes, then held it up against the sky. Satisfied, he dumped the fuel on the tarmac.

  He repeated the procedure for the starboard-side wing tank. Al was watching from the co-pilot’s side window. Pino looked up and gave him a thumbs-up and tossed the second fuel sample.

  “How’d she look?” Al asked, when Pino returned to the cockpit.

  “Fuel’s good, but something about that guy still bothers me.”

  Al nodded. “Don’t worry, brother. I never forget a face. It’ll come to me.”

  About two hours out of New Orleans, Al punched Pino in the shoulder.

  “I’ve got it.”

  Pino looked at his brother like he’d gone nuts. “Got what?”

  “The guy at the airport. I know who he looks like. He’s a dead ringer for Sean Flannigan.”

  Pino nodded. “You’re right. But he bought the farm on Grand Cayman . . . didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, went out like a fuckin’ spy. Ate a cyanide capsule, or so I heard.”

  “Damn, that fuel guy could be his twin. Flannigan didn’t have a brother, did he?”

  “You know, I heard Sean did have a younger brother. But, he was supposedly killed by the British in a shoot-out in Belfast.”

  Al barely got the words out when the starboard engine starting cutting out.

  Pino checked the fuel gauge, mixture, and throttle settings and looked over at Al.

  “All fuel settings are okay.”

  Then the port engine started sputtering, rpm’s dropping on both engines.

  “She’s acting like we’re running out of fuel,” Pino said, tapping on the fuel gauges, both of which showed more than half a tank of fuel left.

  “Son of a bitch! The fuel guy, whoever he is, did something to the fuel floats or gauges. We’re running out of gas.”

  Pino clicked his radio mike and called air traffic control in Houston. He declared an emergency, and gave their position.

  “Jesus, can you put her in the water, dead stick?”

  “I don’t know. Without power the controls are going to be very stiff, if not . . .” Before Pino could finish his sentence, both engines quit.

  “Take the co-pilot’s yoke,” Pino said, his voice firm. “I may need your help to fly this tin can.”

  Pino put the King Air into a series of wide descending spirals.

  “When we get close to impact, I’ll flare to get the nose up and try and pancake her as best I can. It’s going to be pretty rough, big brother. So tighten your seat-belt as tight as you can. When I yell, Flare!’, brace for impact.”

  Al nodded and looked at Pino. “Do you think it was Sean back at the airport?”

  “Not unless the FBI faked his death and stashed him to testify against us.”

  “Damn, I never thought about that. You know, the last time I talked to h
im, he was pretty cagey. He knew I was pissed about him capping the detective at the strip club.”

  “Yeah, and he also knew he was the only one who could tie us to bombing Trueblood’s plane. Who the fuck knows? Help me with the yoke. Pull back just a tad. Okay, perfect. Here we go.”

  Their airspeed was too high and the surface of the gulf choppy.

  “Flare! Brace!” Pino yelled.

  The initial impact was just aft of the wings. The nose of the aircraft then slammed forward into a good-sized wave, and water flooded into the plane. Pino looked over at Al, who appeared to be unconscious. A deep laceration on his forehead was bleeding profusely.

  Pino reached behind his seat and managed to get hold of his flight bag. Water was chest high in the cockpit and rising fast as the bird sank deeper into the Gulf. He opened the bag and took out a snub-nosed .38 special.

  As the water in the cockpit continued to rise, Pino looked over at his unconscious brother. “We ain’t going out like drowning rats, fratello. We’re going out like La Cosa Nostra, made men. See you on the other side, big brother.”

  Pino raised the .38 and shot Al once, in the side of the head.

  He took one more look around the cabin, as the warm, greenish-colored water swirled ever higher around him. Looking aft down the cabin, he smiled when he saw Wu’s briefcase floating above the passenger seats.

  “Too bad, Chang,” Pino said with a soft chuckle. “Looks like we’re both fucked.”

  He switched the revolver from his right hand to his left, reached over, and grasped Al’s left hand. He cocked the revolver, stuck the barrel in his mouth, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 66

  Cyrus and I flew back to Spokane from New Orleans. I planned on staying overnight in Spokane and then head up to the Sullivan Mine to check on the drilling. The next morning, Cyrus and I were having breakfast at a little café not too far from his office. My cell phone was on the table and started sliding around from the vibration.