by Mark Romang
“Yes, sir, I am,” Starks said.
“The shack where the Boudreauxs held Annie hostage, is it still there?”
“It’s still there, Mr. Laskey. Every few weeks the sheriff sends us out there to check on it. Drug traffickers take generators out there and cook meth.”
“Take us there, Deputy. I’ll bet we find Gabby Witherspoon there. Hopefully she’s still alive. And wherever Gabby is, we’ll find Cooper and Crawford,” Laskey added soberly, his perspective vacillating somewhere between despair and cautious optimism.
Chapter 24
Rain from a leaky roof panel dripped onto Annie’s forehead and trickled down her cheeks. A puddle formed a wet pillow around her head. At some point the moisture penetrated her unconsciousness. She opened her eyes to a dark and dreary void.
A murky veil hung over her eyes like a theater curtain. Although she could see nothing but a black void, her intuition told her she lay on the floor of a small room. A dull ache flared in her head as she waited for her eyes to adjust to the blackness. But minutes went by and she still couldn’t see anything. Am I blind? She wondered. Hoping a blindfold would explain her blindness, she tried to bring her hands to her face, but found she was unable to reach up. Ropes bound her hands and feet and prevented exploration. Another drop splattered her face and she scooted her body several inches to one side, away from the annoying drip.
Panic scratched at her mind. It begged to come in and take over her thoughts. Concussions can sometimes cause temporary blindness, she told herself. Within the hour my vision will likely come back. Sebastian Boudreaux had struck her head with his pistol, no doubt giving her yet another concussion. She was thankful he only clubbed her with the weapon. He could have done so much worse.
Even though she couldn’t see, she had a good idea where she was. She was sure she lay bound in the Boudreauxs’ family fishing shack. She could feel the walls close in on her, could sense the structure’s criminal past skulking in the corners.
The rickety shack should have been torn down long ago, and she couldn’t believe the structure hadn’t already succumbed to the elements. A robust man with an axe could probably demolish the flimsy building.
Annie herded her stray thoughts toward Gabby, and her fear gave way to conviction. She wondered if the little girl crouched nearby, perhaps even in the same room as her, huddled in a corner, too frightened to speak.
Annie listened intently, strained her ears for sounds a scared five-year-old girl might make. But she didn’t hear a child’s voice, only the clang of rain and hailstones dinging the shack’s tin roof.
Because she hadn’t yet overheard Sebastian and Jean-Paul, and possibly their uncle Henri, plotting a scheme to wrangle their way to freedom, she concluded she was being held in the shack’s lone bedroom. If that were the case, odds were good Gabby might actually be in the same room as her. Two decades ago, HRT agents rescued Annie McAllister from the closet in this very bedroom.
Annie decided to call out to the girl. “Gabby?” she called softly “Gabby, are you in here? I’m a friend. I won’t hurt you. You can trust me,” she said, raising her voice slightly.
“You needn’t worry about, Gabby, Miss Crawford. The girl is fine. She’s sleeping peacefully,” a male voice answered from somewhere close.
Annie jerked her head around to face the voice.
“Gabby has been given mild sleeping pills to relax her. Right now she’s probably dreaming of baby dolls and tea parties.”
“You haven’t locked her in the closet, have you?” Annie asked after regaining her composure. She wondered now how long the man had been in the room with her.
The man sighed. “Let me assure you, Miss Crawford. The girl is being treated exceedingly well. She’s in no danger where she is.”
Annie quickly deduced the voice belonged to Sebastian Boudreaux. The man sounded too educated and refined to be either Henri or Jean-Paul. “You have no idea the emotional damage you’re inflicting on Gabby. You must open the closet door immediately,” Annie demanded as she glared at the voice.
“I think you’re underestimating, Gabby,” Sebastian countered. “Children have a remarkable ability to adapt to extreme circumstances, much more than adults.”
“Tell that to the girl you kidnapped twenty years ago, Sebastian. Annie McAllister was psychoanalyzed for ten years. One shrink after another tried to mollify her inner demons. But they all failed. Then when Annie got old enough she had to change her last name just to keep all the journalists at bay. And when the reporters couldn’t find her they simply made up stuff to put in their articles.”
“You seem to know her very well. Let me guess, you interviewed Annie McAllister, hoping to acquire an advantage over me. That’s very smart, Miss Crawford. But it won’t work.”
“You really don’t know who I am, do you? I’ll grant you many years have gone by. But perhaps you don’t recognize me because my face has been disfigured. Your uncle tried to kill me with a baseball bat.”
There was a short silence between them, and then Annie heard Sebastian gasp. She dearly wished she could see him realize the truth, see the sharp contours in his face blanch snow white. She would pay big money to see him twist in his skin.
“You can’t be…her. That’s impossible.”
“Oh, but I’m afraid you’re wrong, Sebastian,” Annie said, flashing her captor a cynical smile. “Congratulations, you once again hold Annie McAllister hostage. Incredible, isn’t it? Have you ever been privy to so much irony? What are the odds?”
“It’s only coincidental. I never planned for this to happen.”
“Of course you didn’t. Just like you didn’t mean to throw Gabby’s mother into the Mississippi River,” Annie snapped. “You’re just an innocent victim thrust into a bad scenario. It can all be traced back to your upbringing, your lousy parents, poor schooling, etc. All told, you’re a really swell guy.”
Annie heard footsteps retreating angrily. A door opened. Cigarette smoke and putrid sweat drifted into the bedroom.
“If I were you, Annie, I’d keep my mouth shut,” Sebastian suggested. “I’m the only person standing between Gabby and Jean-Paul. My brother seems infatuated with her. It’s quite unnatural the way he looks at the child. I’m really doing Gabby a favor by locking her in the closet. But if you wish, Annie, I could give Jean-Paul the keys and allow him to take her out,” Sebastian said, just before slamming the bedroom door shut.
Annie wanted to kick herself. She should’ve been civil to Sebastian, but instead had been combative. Building trust with the kidnapper is the first thing a negotiator should establish. She had to do better the next time. Because it looked more and more likely that Gabby’s life rested on her shoulders. Newton Laskey wasn’t going to find them in time. Annie shook her head. I’m all she has now.
Chapter 25
New Orleans
Mario Brinkman made a sour face when he tasted his morning coffee. A longstanding mystery floated around the field office as to who made the morning java. For some reason his coworkers labeled him the culprit, and razzed him incessantly for it. Whoever the phantom brewer, they never got it right. It’s all in the grounds, Brinkman thought.
He pushed his steaming mug to the side and glanced at his watch. Unlike the watery coffee, a definite buzz stirred the conference room this morning. Representatives from both the FBI and the Coast Guard had joined the morning briefing and sat primly around the conference table. Their presence spoke volumes. Something big was going down.
The meeting wasn’t scheduled to start for another three minutes. So just for kicks, Brinkman watched the people around the table as they tasted their coffee. Comic relief. And he needed it. He had to facilitate part of the presentation, and dreaded it. He’d rather spin lies to a violent drug kingpin than speak to an audience.
Brinkman figured his dislike for speechmaking stemmed from his childhood stuttering problem. Lucky for him, the impediment mysteriously vanished in his early teen years.
Her
high heels clacking, Elizabeth Chandler entered the conference room. Her striking presence signaled the meeting was underway. Chandler was Brinkman’s boss, the SAC of the DEA’s New Orleans’ Field Division office. Beautiful and smart, she ruled with an iron fist, and didn’t seem to care whether anyone liked her or not, all except for Brinkman. After his divorce Chandler sexually harassed him.
Although undeniably beautiful, Brinkman didn’t sleep with her. He didn’t think it wise to get involved with someone at work, especially a woman who gave him his orders. More importantly, he still loved his ex-wife. The divorce hadn’t been his idea. Even now, he frequently fantasized about getting back together with Julie. The chances of a reunion, however, were next to impossible. Stubborn pride prevented his fingers from dialing her number.
Elizabeth Chandler took her reserved place at the table and opened a slim folder. The thirty-eight-year-old brunette shuffled her notes for a moment, turned her phone to vibrate, and then looked up and scanned the table. She frowned when she saw an empty chair. “Has anyone seen Jeremy?” she asked while looking at Brinkman.
Curt Howell sat next to Brinkman. The special agent shrugged his shoulders. “I think he’s running a little late, Elizabeth. But he’ll show,” Howell said, ever the peacemaker. The veteran agent had taken it upon himself to mentor the tardy agent, who was definitely a work in progress.
“Well, we’ll have to go on without him. We have too much to cover to delay today’s briefing,” Chandler said, clearly perturbed.
Brinkman grinned on the inside. The queen bee is riled, he thought.
Chandler glanced once more at her notes, and then looked up and flashed everyone at the table a dazzling pseudo smile that long ago won her many beauty pageants. “Okay, before we kick off the meeting, I would like to introduce our esteemed guests. Seated to my right is Brant Pederson, the SAC of the FBI’s New Orleans Field Office, and next to him are FBI Special Agents Richard Pancea and Chris Mallard. Seated across from me is Rear Admiral Patrick Davidson of the U.S. Coast guard. These four gentlemen will be working very closely with us over the next few days. The extent to which they’ll be participating I’ll get to in a minute. Now the reason we’re all...”
The conference door suddenly swung open and Jeremy Leflore bolted in. He hurriedly found his place and sat down, setting his laptop quietly onto the table.
“So nice you could join us, Jeremy,” Chandler scolded. “I presume you kept us waiting for a good reason.”
Leflore looked at his boss and shrugged. “I’m sorry I was late, Elizabeth. I was taking a phone call and lost all track of time.”
Chandler frowned. “Please tell me you weren’t talking to your sports bookie again.”
Leflore shook his head and smiled mischievously. “I only talk to my bookie on Fridays. I was actually chatting with our deep cover guy in Veracruz. He recently recorded a conversation at Carlos Zaplata’s estate that’s quite informative.”
“How old is recent? And does it bear relevance to this meeting?” Chandler asked sternly.
“You bet it’s relevant.”
“What does it say?”
Leflore took a deep breath. He tended to be longwinded. “Okay, in a nutshell, our guy used a hidden parabolic microphone to record a conversation Zaplata had with his top men. On the recording Carlos Zaplata says he’s coming stateside to personally pick up the Boudreauxs.”
Brinkman nearly toppled out his chair. He leaned forward, eager to hear more.
“Are you sure this isn’t a clever attempt to mislead us,” Chandler asked. “Is the recording unmistakably clear?”
“I think it’s the real deal, Elizabeth. If you consider the conversation took place in a wine cellar, the recording quality is good, even without being cleaned up. Our guy played the conversation over a secure satellite phone. I heard it myself. The content is unmistakable.”
Chandler tapped her pen rapidly on the table. “How soon can we get our hands on this recording?”
Jeremy beamed. “A Gulfstream carrying our deep-cover guy and the recording is due to take off within the hour from Veracruz International Airport.”
“Well, gentlemen, the stakes have just risen exponentially. We now have an unprecedented opportunity to arrest the world’s biggest drug kingpin right in our backyard. Let’s not waste it.” Chandler looked over at Brinkman. “Mario, we’ll begin with your presentation.”
Suddenly aware his hands were clammy and his bladder painfully full, Brinkman got up from his chair and walked to the back of the room. After dimming the lights, he moved to a laptop positioned in a corner and began the PowerPoint presentation. The first image to hit the screen displayed a grainy black-and-white photo.
“Speak of the devil, here he is. Carlos Zaplata. He’s one of the richest men in the world. Net worth thought to be around forty billion. He buys approximately seventy percent of his poppy stock from Afghanistan, and grows the rest in Mexico.”
Brinkman enlarged the image. “This photo is roughly ten years old. Zaplata may have lost some hair by now, and his facial features may be different as well. It’s rumored a plastic surgeon stays at his mansion 24-7. As you can see, he’s reed thin.
“Although he’s a heroin addict, Zaplata runs a tight ship. He runs his drug smuggling operation like a Fortune 500 corporation, even provides his employees with health care benefits and a 401k. He hasn’t made very many mistakes until now. Hopefully this blunder will prove to be a fatal one.”
Brinkman took a sip of coffee, grimaced, and then keyed the next slide. “This ugly little guy is Lupe Sanchez, Zaplata’s chief enforcer. Sanchez does most of Zaplata’s dirty work. He’s an unholy terror with guns, knives, and fists, but prefers to use explosives. Zaplata never goes anywhere without him. They’re joined at the hip.
“Standing just behind Sanchez in the photo is Wilfredo Vargas. At 33 years old, he’s much easier on the eyes than Sanchez. But he’s poison mean. No pun intended. Rat poison is his favorite death instrument. Vargas is what you might call a genteel killer, if there is such a thing.”
Brinkman brought up another slide. His mood had lightened after hearing Jeremy’s bombshell announcement, and he could almost taste his revenge. He just hoped he would be the one to slap the cuffs on Zaplata’s wrists. It was only fair. No one else in the room had lost a child to Zaplata’s heroin.
“And last but certainly not least, we have Salvador Monzon, the third link in Zaplata’s enforcer chain. I don’t know how good Monzon is with a handgun, but with a sniper rifle, he’s in the top five worldwide,” Brinkman said, shivering as he eyed the slide. And it’s my opinion that all three assassins will accompany Zaplata to Morgan City.”
“Do we have any photos of the boat they’ll be arriving on?” Rear Admiral Davidson asked.
Chandler jumped in and answered Davidson’s query. “We do indeed have photos, Admiral. Unfortunately, Zaplata owns an armada of fishing boats. Commercial fishing is just one of his many cover businesses. Which boat he’ll be on is anyone’s guess. But I’ll make sure your men get photos of all Zaplata’s registered boats.”
Brinkman flipped on the lights and returned quietly to his spot at the table.
“I wouldn’t put it past Zaplata to take this opportunity to smuggle some contraband into the country,” Howell speculated, having participated in over 300 drug busts during his fifteen year tenure in the DEA.
Chandler nodded. “We have to assume he will, Curt. Selling drugs is what Zaplata does. Obviously we will conduct a thorough search of his boat. It will only help build our case if we can find something.” Chandler turned her attention to Brant Pederson, who sat next to her. “How close is the HRT to finding Gabby, Brant?”
Pederson made a pained face. “We don’t know where she is. The hurricane is complicating our efforts. Once the storm abates we’ll have a better chance at canvassing larger areas of the state where we think the Boudreaux brothers may be holding the child.”
“And therein lies our biggest challenge
, Brant,” Chandler said. “How can your Hostage Rescue Team liberate the girl and arrest the Boudreaux brothers without spooking Zaplata? Perhaps your people should wait until after Zaplata reaches Morgan City to rescue Gabby.”
Pederson bristled. “We do that and the child will likely die. I’m willing to work with you, Elizabeth. But the little girl is priority-one with the Bureau.”
Chandler’s face reddened. “I am in no way discounting Gabby Witherspoon’s life, Brant. But if you’ll just rein in your emotions for a moment and examine the bigger picture; I think you’ll see that toppling Zaplata’s drug ring can save untold thousands from the scourge of heroin. Just think about it.” Chandler looked across the table at the Admiral. “I hope we can count on the Coast Guard’s presence, Admiral. It’s imperative we do.”
“You’ll have it, Miss Chandler. Drug interdiction is one of the Coast Guard’s primary objectives. And at the moment, the Coast Guard is on elevated alert with Homeland Security. We currently have several medium and high-endurance cutters on patrol near the Gulf Shores. And since Zaplata buys opium from Afghan drug lords with al-Qaeda and Taliban connections, it’s a no-brainer that the Coast Guard will want to be involved.”
“That’s good news, Admiral. Very good news,” Chandler said while jotting something down in her notes. She looked up and perused those in attendance until her jade-colored eyes came to linger on Brinkman. “Given the opportunity before us, gentlemen, I suggest we put our heads together and brainstorm. We need a foolproof game plan. Failure is not an option.”
Chapter 26
According to the National Weather Bureau, flashfloods are the number one weather-related killer in the United States, having killed more than 10,000 people since 1900. Jon Rafter lived the danger firsthand. He awoke moments ago from his convulsions only to find himself swept along by the Atchafalaya River.
