by Mark Romang
Brinkman grinned. “I will, I promise. But you’ll have to give me your cell phone number.” He watched her smile. A real one this time, and he realized he still loved her.
“I’ll call and leave it on your machine.”
“Good enough.”
“I better go, Mario. The bell is about to ring.”
“Hold on, Julie. There is one more thing I need to say.”
She looked at him curiously. “Yes?”
Brinkman hesitated, feeling as if he were about to take a fatal step off a tall cliff. He had no guarantees she would respond favorably. “Julie, I admit I was pretty much a lousy husband to you. I took for granted what we had when I put my job before you. I deeply regret that now, and wish I could go back and change things. The thing is--I miss you. And I was wondering…that is…if you’re not already seriously involved with someone, if we could…”
As usual, his timing could be better. The bell rang and students streamed into the hallway from multiple directions. Chattering teenagers attired in the latest fashion trends swept him away from his ex-wife. Brinkman waved helplessly at Julie.
It could have gone better, he thought, as he turned and followed the students down the long hallway. But at least she wanted him to call her back. And that was a beginning, a starting place he didn’t have until today. It would have to do for now, he decided. All in all, he wouldn’t complain.
Chapter 38
Charenton, Louisiana
The next day
Sebastian Boudreaux knelt behind a camellia shrub and watched a gray-haired woman extract a bulging shopping bag from inside an old Ford pickup truck. The woman bumped the truck door shut with her hip, and then limped gingerly up a shabby wheelchair ramp connected to a trailer home. She disappeared inside the modest home.
Sebastian left his hiding spot and hurried up to the pickup. He looked inside and smiled when he spotted keys dangling in the ignition.
He was just about to open the cab and slide behind the wheel when the lady came back outside. Sebastian smiled broadly. “Hello, young lady. I saw your pickup and wondered if it might be for sale. It’s perfect for my intentions.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. She appraised him fiercely, her scruffy eyebrows seesawing into a frown. Sebastian hoped his disguise was good enough to deflect her suspicion. He had no doubts his mug shot was being displayed all over television sets and the internet.
Last night he hid in fleabag motel and tried to alter his appearance. His bald head certainly limited his options. But he tried anyway and ventured into the town of Charenton long enough to purchase a wig, a box of hair color, a hat, and a set of reading glasses at a drugstore. Hurrying back to his room, he dyed his eyebrows and beard stubble blonde, then donned the wig, reading glasses, and cowboy hat to complete his new look.
“The truck isn’t for sale,” the woman said firmly.
Sebastian allowed his shoulders to slump. “I’m willing to give you a fair price for it. I’m in dire need of a truck like this one.” Sebastian looked over at the homely F-250. Rust coated its fenders and doors. Its appearance didn’t matter much. He just needed it to run. “A heavy duty truck like this one would be perfect for my scrap metal business,” he added.
The old woman shook her head. “This truck was my husband’s farm truck. When we lost the farm and moved to town it was one of the few things we brought with us.”
Sebastian nodded. “I understand sentimental value. But maybe this will persuade you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of thousand-dollar bills. He thumbed out six of them and reached out his hand.
The old woman’s eyes grew large. She looked at the money for several seconds, but then shook her head “Mister, you can’t hear any better than my husband. The truck isn’t for sale. You would have to shoot me in the head to drive away in this truck.”
Sebastian felt a primeval rage boil up from his belly. His offer was more than generous. The old truck wasn’t worth five-hundred dollars. And yet the old woman stupidly turned him down flat. “Very well, as you wish,” Sebastian said and pulled out a Browning handgun tucked in his belt at the small of his back. He leveled the gun at the old woman’s face and pulled the trigger, double-tapping her wrinkled forehead.
Seconds later he sped out the trailer park and continued his trek to the Gulf. His hands shook on the steering wheel for at least thirty minutes before calming down. He was sure he was now the most hunted man in America, or at least in Louisiana.
If he could just board Carlos Zaplata’s shrimp boat he had a chance of avoiding capture. Hiding at sea had to be better than hiding out in a state swarming with feds and police. That’s a big if, he thought sourly as he tromped on the gas pedal, still hopping mad at the old woman.
Chapter 39
That same day
Sitting alone in the captain’s quarters, Carlos Zaplata stared pensively out a porthole at the vast Atlantic Ocean, his mind preoccupied with recollections of years past when he just started out selling drugs. His ascent had been a rapid one. But he had a good teacher, learning his craft from the best. His uncle, Juan Angelica, carefully groomed him to one day rule the drug flow into America.
Zaplata turned his eyes from the porthole and the unchanging Atlantic and gazed into a mirror hanging from the cabin wall. Oddly enough, when he looked into the mirror he didn’t see his reflection. Instead, he saw a gathering of faces like mug shots in a police file. Each face belonged to a dead man, all drug lords whom he’d supplanted on his meteoric rise to the top.
He felt no remorse for taking their lives. Selling drugs is a deadly profession. Lives are discarded as thoughtlessly as underwear, and his rivals all knew the inherent risks and fleeting rewards that come with the profession.
Zaplata found no pleasure in rubbing out his fellow countrymen, no inexpressible joy at stuffing their lifeless bodies into junked cars to decompose. He simply did whatever it took to make a buck. And if his livelihood required him to commit violence and murder, he didn’t bat an eye.
Although he’d long ago steeled his conscious against feeling guilt, the ghosts of men who once stood in his way haunted him. He often saw their faces in the most unlikely places, and at the most inconvenient moment. The ghosts appeared and disappeared without warning, just as they did now.
One face in the mirror shined hotter and brighter than the rest. This face belonged to an American, who unlike the others, still lived. The man was Mario Brinkman, and Zaplata detested him, loathed him like a beaten child hates their abusive parent.
A long time ago Brinkman caused him great physical suffering. The maltreatment occurred during an American-led raid on Juan Angelica’s Columbian estate. Brinkman was leading a squad of Rangers during the raid when Zaplata happened upon him.
Without blinking an eye, Brinkman fired six M-16 rounds into Zaplata’s stomach. Surviving multiple gunshots to the abdomen rarely happens. Back then there wasn’t a Vegas gambler alive who would’ve placed a wager on him pulling through. Yet he did. He beat the spread through sheer, pigheaded defiance.
After the incident, he spent nearly three years in various hospitals undergoing delicate surgeries to repair his damaged intestines. His agonizing road to recovery took him through a dark valley littered with setbacks. Blood clots and infections nearly killed him on several occasions. For months he couldn’t digest solid foods. Nurses fed him through a feeding tube. His weight plummeted to one-hundred pounds.
Even today, sixteen years later, maintaining his body weight is a struggle. His appetite remains poor because doctors could only salvage a third of his stomach. As a result, his six-foot-three frame carried little flesh. He looked like a skeleton under his clothes.
At the darkest hour during his hospital stay, Zaplata kept himself alive by dreaming of revenge. While flat on his back he swore an oath to one day track down the Army Ranger--no matter how difficult it might be--and kill him slowly over several months, inducing terrible pain and suffering.
Although mu
ch time had since transpired, Zaplata never forgot his hospital bed promise. Over the years he discreetly gathered information about the raid, using deception as his modus operandi. Through dogged persistence he pieced together enough clues to learn the identity and whereabouts of his nemesis.
Posing as a crime historian writing a book on Juan Angelica garnered him the most useful information. Although much of the raid is still classified, he somehow hoodwinked enough intelligence officials to learn what he needed to know.
At times over the years, Zaplata placed Brinkman under constant surveillance, sending Salvador Monzon into the states on work visas to shadow Brinkman and learn his habits and routines. Twice during this time frame Monzon had been given the green light to kill the American if an opportunity arose. But at the last minute in both instances Zaplata reined in the assassin and called off the hit. Allowing Monzon to kill Brinkman would in no way satisfy his thirst for avengement. He dearly wanted to perform the dirty deed himself. That way he could watch the blood drain firsthand from Brinkman’s handsome face. Only then would he feel wholly avenged.
Unfortunately a complication stopped him. The Americans wanted him badly. The last time he checked he was sixth on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list. His mug shot was plastered all over the internet and on the bulletin board of every sheriff’s office, police precinct, and rural post office in the United States. So for the time being, Zaplata did the next best thing to killing Brinkman. He systematically destroyed his life.
It took some doing but the end results were spectacular. What computer hackers were unable to do, Salvador Monzon accomplished by pawing through Brinkman’s garbage can. It took several weeks, but Monzon’s patience rewarded him when he found a discarded credit card statement. With the information Monzon embarked upon an internet shopping spree, racking up a twenty-three-thousand-dollar debt. Three weeks after having his credit rating destroyed, Brinkman lost his house. Monzon set fire to it and the home burned to the ground.
An unexpected bonus came when Brinkman had to participate in a lengthy and expensive court battle with his insurance carrier, whose hotshot attorneys argued that Brinkman set the fire to pay off his credit card debt. The jury eventually acquitted Brinkman, but the damage had been done. Brinkman’s reputation had been tarnished. His arms hung at his sides, and his legs were wobbly.
Zaplata stepped up his attack, unleashing a knockout blow to Brinkman’s exposed chin. He took away what Brinkman prized most: his beautiful daughter, Eve. Monzon orchestrated the death blow with stunning results.
A lover of the arts and a gifted classical pianist, Salvador Monzon often frequented art galleries by day and symphonies by night. And at this time the treacherous sniper composed his magnum opus. Monzon deftly recruited a handsome Hispanic boy from Eve’s high school to befriend her and introduce her to heroin, arguably the most addictive illicit drug.
Eve Brinkman became hopelessly addicted to heroin during her final high school semester. The drug became all that mattered. Eve partied away her full-ride college scholarship before spring break of her freshmen year. She then lost job after meaningless job, was arrested three times for stealing, and finally ended up living in the streets where she overdosed and died alone. The resulting grief the Brinkmans experienced proved too great for their struggling marriage to endure. They divorced a year after Eve’s death.
Zaplata sighed dejectedly. Watching Brinkman’s life go to hell in a hand basket should have made him gleefully happy. But it didn’t. Nothing made him happy anymore. Disillusionment covered him like a wet blanket. And try as he might, he couldn’t figure out why he felt so hollow, so inconsequential.
He possessed everything the world had to offer. His lifestyle defined hedonism at its most decadent. He lived in opulent homes, drove the finest automobiles, and was attended to by a large staff of servants, yet still couldn’t find any purpose to life. Joy eluded him. His great riches only brought him headaches. Cartel rivals were always trying to defraud him, purloin what he’d worked so hard to achieve. Even Zaplata’s stable of ravishing concubines couldn’t lift him from his bottomless pit. It has to be Brinkman’s fault. He is to blame for everything! Zaplata concluded hotly.
The drug lord suddenly jumped to his feet and stalked over to the mirror. He glared at the glass, at Brinkman’s haughty face, a face only he could see. “You will die, Senor Brinkman. Very soon I will have my revenge. I will kill you myself,” Zaplata snarled. He touched the scar tissue that covered most of his sunken abdomen. “I will disembowel you, Senor Brinkman! Like Judas Iscariot, your intestines will spill out.”
The door to the room opened and Lupe Sanchez entered. Sanchez never knocked. Startled, Zaplata backed away from the mirror. “What is it, Lupe?” he asked, trying to regain his lost composure.
“I wanted to inform you that we’re seventy-five nautical miles out from the Morgan City harbor.” Sanchez said.
Zaplata nodded his head. “That will put us ashore about two o’clock this afternoon.”
“Yes, Carlos. That is what I figure.”
“Will that allow us enough time to unload the cargo and take on our passengers before nightfall?”
Sanchez shrugged. “We’ll make it be enough time.”
Zaplata poured himself a glass of zinfandel. He smiled weakly. “I like your confidence, Lupe. It gives me comfort.” Zaplata took a drink of the red wine, savoring it in his mouth. “By the way, I won’t be on board for the return voyage.”
Sanchez’s tufted eyebrows lifted. “Oh?”
“Yes, I’ve made other arrangements. I’ll have one of our pilots at the airport in Patterson fly me back.”
“I fear you’re making a grave mistake, Carlos,” Sanchez said. “You should not show your face in America. I suggest you wait in this stateroom until our business in Morgan City is finished and we’re back out to sea.”
Zaplata shook his head. “There is something I have to do. And I can’t do it hiding on a boat like a stowaway.”
“It’s Brinkman again, isn’t it? This obsession with the gringo is going to spell your doom, Carlos.”
“I’ve put it off long enough, Lupe. It’s time I finish the job.”
“Salvador could have eliminated him long ago,” Sanchez reminded.
Zaplata sat down on his bunk. “This is something I alone must do. It’s only appropriate.”
Sanchez snorted. “You’re loco, Carlos! And you gravely underestimate your opponent. He is a dangerous man, yet you don’t respect him. You forget he is a wounded animal. You took away his daughter--his most prized possession. His thirst for revenge far surpasses yours.”
“I know Brinkman’s background, his military training. No one is more familiar with him than me. I will not take him lightly,” Zaplata promised.
“Very well. I wish you good luck,” Sanchez lied as he opened the door to leave. “You’ll need it,” he added as the door clicked shut behind him.
Zaplata sat motionless on the bed and stared sullenly at the door long after it had closed. He hoped Sanchez was just being pessimistic. Because Zaplata knew one thing for sure, he didn’t feel very lucky.
Chapter 40
Two hours later
Inside the shrimp processing plant, Elizabeth Chandler monitored the Morgan City harbor through a cracked window pane. Shrimp boats waited in a long line to unload their catch. Dock workers toiled feverishly, but it promised to be a long afternoon for workers and fishermen alike.
Chandler took it all in. She studied everything about the port. Her appraising eyes missed nothing, including the old man fishing alone on the pier. Despite the cloying humidity, the old man wore corduroy pants and a windbreaker. A thatch of white hair tumbled out a floppy, blue fishing hat.
Chandler had been watching him for some time. The old man didn’t seem to pay much attention to his line. Instead of watching his bobber, he intently gazed at the processing plant, which slightly alarmed her. Just one more thing to worry about.
To say the op
eration was unraveling would be a mild exaggeration. A more truthful statement may be that unforeseen variables were stretching it to its limits. Only minutes ago, intelligence came in that not one, but two Mexican-registered fishing boats owned by Carlos Zaplata were due to dock in separate Louisiana harbors within the hour. What she and everyone else in the room were trying figure out was which trawler transported Zaplata. Was he aboard the Sea Maiden en route to Morgan City, or was he a passenger on the Argonaut headed for Delacrombe?
An uplink with an orbiting NSA satellite gave them real-time, super-zoomed photos of the two boats. But so far Zaplata hadn’t yet appeared topside on either vessel. In the grand scheme of things it didn’t matter if he did. But visual proof would satisfy their curiosity and enable them to shift manpower to one port instead of dividing them between two.
“I got ten bucks says he’s on the Sea Maiden,” DEA agent Jeremy Leflore said.
Curt Howell snickered. “That’s a safe bet, Jeremy. I expected a gambler like you to be more high stakes than that.”
“Hey, I’d be happy to raise the ante, Curt,” Leflore bragged. “I started low because I didn’t think I’d get any takers.”
“Why are you so sure Zaplata’s on the Sea Maiden?” Brant Pederson, the SAC of the FBI’s New Orleans Field office asked.
Leflore crinkled a Diet Coke can. He looked at Pederson, a serious-minded man with droopy eyes and a flabby neck. “Because Zaplata is a hedonist. Pleasure is his God, and he always surrounds himself in luxury. It stands to reason that he’s on the catamaran. It’s a brand new boat with lots of amenities. The Argonaut on the other hand is older than Davy Jones. It doesn’t have near the bells and whistles the Sea Maiden has. I just think Zaplata is too proud to travel on a boat with only one head.”
