I watched the two of them ogle each other, amazed at how Britney could flip a switch so easily. Even with people gyrating all around them, the cute couple was locked together. Britney’s arms draped over his shoulders, and he had his hands planted at her hips.
“We’re not getting any audio,” Sean said. “Just body movement.”
“Doesn’t look like they’re saying much. They look like two lovebirds, oblivious to everyone around them.”
I sipped my drink, forcing myself to look around, while hoping I wouldn’t spot the Wonder Twins prowling nearby.
“Booker, I just received some intel from my…friend,” Sean said.
Friend most likely meant his CIA handler, but I knew he couldn’t outright share everything with Bolt sitting right next to him. “About what?”
“Yeah, about what?” Bolt said.
“Look, Bolt, I know you’re more or less part of the team. But I have to pretend you’re not really here. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“If I get to listen in, then yes.” He giggled.
“Booker, I think I know what’s spooking Julio, Amador, the whole cartel from the sound of it.”
“Spill it.”
“El Jefe—The Chief. That was the nickname given to a dictator who ruled the Dominican for over thirty years, brutally killing anyone who dared to speak against him. He was merciless,” Sean said.
“Yeah, I’ve heard people mention the name, El Jefe, but I never knew much about him. No one wanted to talk about him,” Bolt said.
“Says here that Rafael Trujillo ruled the Dominican for thirty-one years, 1930-1961, until he was assassinated.”
“Damn. Must be an all-time record in the category of ruthless dictators.”
“Well, over time it states that he became paranoid, stopping anyone he considered an enemy of the state, whether it was someone standing up to his political party or a possible incursion from neighboring Haiti.”
“Amazing. By not having a true education, I feel like I’ve missed out on so much involving my country.” Even with all the racket around me, I could hear Bolt’s somber tone. He wasn’t the kind of person who sought sympathy—at least when he wasn’t scamming an unsuspecting tourist. When this was all over, Esteban safe and at home and Britney in custody, I’d have to figure out a way to allow Bolt to be a normal kid for at least a few of his teenage years.
“Keep your head up, Bolt.”
“Servicio de Inteligencia Militar,” Sean interjected. “Known as SIM, Trujillo’s secret police murdered and tortured anyone that threatened Trujillo’s rule. They used a bunch of methods to kill those who dared to stand up to El Jefe: burning people alive, electrocution, hanging, a shot to the face, as well as kidnapping and rape, creating a climate of fear and intimidation.”
“Holy mother of Jesus. I never heard about this, and I went to school, even have a college degree. Might need to rethink what they’re leaving out of textbooks.”
“Sounds like you’re creating a platform. You going to run for office?”
“Yeah, right. My direct style would really win over the press.”
“SIM also controlled the press. In addition, they extorted money to lobby American legislators, spread propaganda.”
“I can’t imagine living during that era. I may not have a home or family, but I consider myself lucky,” Bolt added.
“Freedom. We all take it for granted,” I said. “Until we don’t have it.”
“Apparently, the group patrolled the streets in Volkswagen Beetles. They called them Cepillos.”
“It goes on to say that SIM was connected to the death of fifty thousand people over those years. Fifty thousand. Think about that.”
“Messed up. No one knew, outside of the Dominican? Sounds nuts.”
“The Dominican remained at peace with the US the entire time this was going on, through what, six or seven administrations?”
“Someone in the US government must have known we were backing a cold-blooded killer.”
“Motivations of a few can dictate the actions of many,” Sean said.
“What does that mean, Master Yoda?” I joked.
“Smartass. Once politics are involved, and analysts look at all the global parts, and how one domino holds up the others, then most of the people with skin in the game—the state department usually leading the way—almost can’t stop their own machine. Justice is inexplicably replaced by the game of justification. And that’s a slippery slope at best, trying to rationalize thousands of people dying just to ensure you have a friend of the state providing so-called stability in the region.”
“Reminds me when the government used to back the Shah of Iran. Then the whole country blew up, and the Ayatollah marched in—”
“More like shuffled in.”
“Yeah, that.”
“The cries of an oppressed Iranian generation put the US in the crosshairs of the so-called revolution. Lots of shit happened behind the scenes, and don’t get me started on how the radical Muslims manipulated the followers, brainwashing them to follow their doctrine of hate.”
“Where were you when all of that went down?”
The earpiece went silent for a few seconds. I’d forgotten our little friend was still on the line. Sean wasn’t about to break his cover for anyone—except me apparently.
“Yes, it’s me. Bolt. I’m here and listening,” he said.
I tapped my thumb off the frosted glass tabletop, as Britney and Amador continued their uncomfortable dance. It was obvious he had no rhythm. The old Britney would have left his ass on the floor or laughed hard enough to pee her pants.
“What?” Bolt asked.
I think Sean had given him the eye.
“Bottom line, though, Sean. Does your friend believe that a member of Trujillo’s family has returned to the country and used a different tactic to rule the land?”
“Said it’s possible.”
“That’s all he could tell you, it’s possible?”
“He’s awaiting more input.”
“You mean the…uh, your old group doesn’t have all the information at their disposal?”
“Uh, no. They never have. The new buzzword in that world is collaboration.”
“They actually practice that? Good for them.”
“I said buzzword. I didn’t say they actually used that approach with their fellow agencies. It’s still as cutthroat as ever. Everyone points the finger when something goes wrong in another agency, boasting they could have done it better, making a play to take ownership of an area they have little to no expertise in.”
“Politics.”
“Yeah, the dirtiest word in our language.”
“La política es una mierda,” Bolt added.
Sean laughed so hard, it turned into one of his hacking, gurgling coughs.
“You’re right, Bolt. The bullshit is so deep it’s hard to wade through it all.”
“But you do, every day, for how many years?” I asked.
A silent pause.
“Another time, Booker,” he said solemnly.
Two girls stumbled into my table, and I quickly picked up my drink.
“Lo siento mucho,” they said through giggles.
They were obviously drunk. I just smiled and crunched some ice out of my glass.
I thought through everything I’d heard about Trujillo. “I’m not an expert on Caribbean politics or the drug-smuggling scene, but the presumption of a Trujillo relative even stepping foot back on this island would take a lot of—”
“Testículos,” Bolt snickered.
“If Amador is viewed as the so-called new dictator of the island, then don’t you think this El Jefe character knows that if he knocks Amador off the pedestal, then he would seize control of all the power and money associated with that position? El Jefe might even see it as the circle of life. Someone assassinates their father or uncle, whatever the relation, then they return and take down the man with all the clout—Amador.”
“I
like how your mind thinks,” Sean said.
“Any data on Trujillo’s relatives? Your friend needs to identify and locate every family member, and check out what they’re doing, who they’re in business with.”
“He’s already on it. I just received the first batch. The second one is in the oven as we speak.”
“Hey guys, someone is on the move,” Bolt said.
Shifting my eyes right through a sea of hard bodies, I saw the hardest being pulled along like a reluctant dog on a leash.
“Amador has Britney by the wrist. He’s practically dragging her across the dance floor.” I jumped to a standing position. “They’re headed toward the kitchen.”
“Shit,” I heard Sean say, followed by rustling noises. “We lose the camera and sound after about two hundred yards.”
Just as Britney vanished through the door, she seemed to turn her head my way, but we didn’t make eye contact.
“Amador’s goon squad is right on their heels. Something is up. I think they might have just kidnapped Britney.”
Without giving a second thought, I lunged out of my stance, making a beeline toward the kitchen, the door still swiveling.
“Britney’s been made,” Sean said. “She’s as good as dead.”
15
Lifting an arm to plow through the swivel door, I popped the pad of my hand off the metal facing. A quick crack-back, the door nearly slamming against my nose. A woman screamed. Suddenly, my feet stumbled over something—or someone—and I saw a tray whizzing by my head just as I lost my balance. Trying to catch myself on the way down, my shoulder clipped another tray, larger, with something chocolate stacked sky high. A guy yelled out a Spanish cuss word. A knee popped my chin.
Was that my knee or that other guy’s knee?
Whatever. I finished bouncing off body parts and tumbled to the tiled floor.
Moans all around me.
A quick assessment to determine if I was still put together. Twisting my torso, I felt a twinge. Well, more than a twinge. More like a dagger twisting between my third and fourth ribs.
“Are you guys okay?” I asked.
That was the wrong question apparently.
The woman I’d first mowed over got to her feet and ran off a string of cuss words that would put a ship of sailors to shame. Good thing I didn’t understand a word she said.
“Are you hurt?” I asked the male waiter. Lifting to my feet, I noticed a wad of icing smeared down my shirt and onto my pants.
More cussing by the woman.
“Marta, she is a bit wacko when she thinks someone has done her wrong,” the man said, scooping up the mess on the floor.
“Sorry about running you guys over.”
“Everyone is in a hurry tonight.”
“Did you see where a middle-aged man in a black T-shirt and a pretty—”
“Oh, the hot blonde and those guys? Yeah, we have a back door where they let some of the VIPs in and out. It’s down this aisle, then go to the end of the hallway and turn right.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada.”
I flipped on my heels and darted down the aisle, dodging two more would-be tacklers—rather, waiters—then cut left. I didn’t see a soul, which was really not surprising given my graceful entrance into the kitchen. I hoofed it to the end, swung to my right, and then flew out the door.
The back parking lot. Twisting, I saw brake lights at the exit, turning right. A Hummer. Another already in the street moving in the same direction.
“Mr. Booker!” I put a hand to my ear as I picked up my pace.
“What?”
“Where are you?”
“Back parking lot, chasing after Amador,” I said through heavy gasps.
“Hold tight. We’re going to pick you up.”
Pick me up? How? I didn’t have time to debate logistics. Swinging my arms, I extended my stride, cars and windows and small bushes nothing more than a blur. I caught a waft of something foul, then whizzed by a dumpster and connected the thoughts.
The last Hummer completed its turn and motored down the street. I lost sight when it moved past neighboring buildings.
“Dammit!” I knew I’d never catch up, and my all-out sprint slowly pulled back a bit, reaching the edge of the cross street just in time to see the procession of black Hummers turning left about a quarter mile away.
“Mr. Booker!”
Jerking my head left, a motorcycle of some kind was skidding, trying to stop. Bolt’s eyes were bigger than the full moon overhead. I leaped to the side, hitting the pavement, my own elbow stabbing my rib cage.
Just as I looked up, rubber squealed off the pavement, and the two-wheeler awkwardly pulled to a stop, nearly dropping to the ground.
“What the hell, Bolt? You said you knew how to drive one of these,” Sean said, trying to keep the bike upright while holding his tablet in one hand.
I hadn’t seen Sean since Bolt had been riding shotgun.
Peeling myself off the pavement, the scent of burning rubber lingering in the air, I placed a hand against my torso.
“You okay? It’s your ribs again, isn’t it?”
“They just turned left at that first intersection,” I said, lifting to my feet.
“I know. I can’t hear or see anything, but the device has a GPS signal attached to it.”
I took another look at their ride.
“You’re on a moped?” I rubbed my eyes in disbelief.
Bolt leaned his head one way. “What do you expect on short notice? It’s all I could come up with.”
“Get on,” Sean ordered, his eyes studying the tablet.
“Where?” I asked moving toward the mini-motorcycle.
“Bolt can stand on the foot rest. I’ll drive and you hold on behind me.”
This was nuts, and not just dangerous nuts.
“I hate to be Captain Obvious, but why doesn’t Bolt hang back here? We can pick him up later, or call Valdez and have him drop him off at the brownstone.”
“Don’t have time to debate it.” Sean revved the tiny engine as he pulled Bolt into place. “Valdez called earlier and said Julio and his thugs out-tricked Manuel and escaped. Can’t risk Bolt being alone.”
“Shit,” I said, straddling the small seat.
“Hold this.” Sean gave me the tablet. “Tell me which way to go.”
With the moped hovering just inches off the surface, Sean popped a small wheelie, the tires leaving a mousy squeal behind me.
“With all our weight, will this thing ever get to ten miles per hour?” I asked, only because our starting pace was slower than my light jog.
“This one has the hundred ten horsepower engine. Just takes a little time to get it up to speed,” Sean said over his shoulder. “Hell, this is nothing. I once had to haul three hundred pounds of cash across the India border into Pakistan.”
“Cash?” I said as wind finally started slapping my face.
“Can’t get into details, but it was up and down hills and mountains. A two-hundred-mile trip. The engine was toast by the time I crossed at Wagah. So was my ass.” He chuckled, then asked, “Still turn left here?”
“Uh…” I studied the GPS map. “Yeah. No, wait, keep going another street. Might be able to catch up.”
I heard Bolt up front, yelling, his words lost in the wind-whipped air.
We whizzed past a car turning right and two couples who were dressed like they’d just left Club de Python. They pointed fingers and broke out in laughter.
I would have cracked up too, if I wasn’t the one clinging to the back four inches of a moped seat.
“Turn left on Charles Sumner,” I called out.
Sean slowed just slightly, leaning left. “Whoa!” To keep from sliding to the concrete and being trampled by the moped, Bolt leaned the opposite direction…which only caused Sean to lean harder.
The tiny two-wheeler scraped the bottom of its side carriage off the concrete, creating a quick spark.
“Whoa!” I yelled th
is time, trying to keep my shoe from clipping the street.
Sean righted the clown mobile and opened the throttle.
“Damn, you really know how to maneuver this piece of crap,” I said.
“I’ve always had to improvise. You learn to do the best you can with what you got,” he said, craning his neck around Bolt to see the road.
Studying the screen, it appeared we were about two blocks behind, but still losing ground. We had to take a chance to catch up.
“Go right on Defillo just ahead.”
The team executed the turn like a well-oiled boat crew. “Now we’re moving,” I said, trying to steady the table as we picked up speed and crossed a swath of cobblestones.
“Hold on!” Sean shouted.
He locked the brakes, and we started fishtailing. I tried to lean against the violent thrust of energy pulling us off balance.
“Fuck!” he said.
I dropped my sandals, and instantly felt a flash of heat searing the bottom of my feet.
We finally came to a lurching stop, the moped just inches from dropping to the ground, Sean and I both on one knee, and Bolt draped over Sean’s shoulder.
“I always wanted to visit Disney World. Check that off my wish list,” Sean said, his face a tone lighter.
“Why the hell did we stop—”
I shut my mouth just as I glanced in front of us. A woman in a blue uniform holding a sign that read Deténgase planted a hand on her hip and shook her head, saying something under her breath. Just behind her, a line of four Segways glided across the road. A couple of the riders turned their heads. I knew what they were thinking. I was thinking the same thing.
The Segways whirred left and down a sidewalk as the guard shot us another condescending look and ambled off to the side.
“Let’s roll,” Sean said, squaring the bike and peeling less rubber than found on a pencil eraser.
“They’re still in my sights,” I said over the wind.
“If we get more than a half mile away, the accuracy of the GPS is less specific. Then if it goes away, turns off for whatever reason, finding her will be difficult, to say the least.”
“Hang a left here then.”
Sean made the turn smoothly. With nothing but flat concrete in front of us, he gunned it. Bolt held up his hands if he were at the bow of the Titanic—prior to crashing into a glacier.
BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6 Page 42
