The chief finally held up his hand for silence. He strode toward the gang’s leader and lifted him by an arm from the floor. The chief berated the man for a moment and Grant’s stomach sank when he picked up the word sobrino, the hooligan was the chief’s nephew.
Fantastic.
All six of the group were roused and pushed out of the front door, all properly scolded of course, but sent on their merry way.
The chief tucked his thumbs into his leather gun belt and turned, leering first at Grant then Tedesco. “Brawling is frowned upon in San Blas. Amigos.” Even through the thickly accented English the way the word amigos was spoken left no doubt about the man’s true feelings.
A good deed never goes unpunished.
The chief surveyed the damage done to the restaurant. “I think if you pay for the repairs we can look the other way. This time.”
“But we—” Tedesco’s attempt to explain was interrupted by a wave from the chief and another proclamation.
“And a day or two as my guests should cool you off.” He smiled. “So, next time maybe you’ll think before resorting to violence.”
Grant elbowed Tedesco and the big man shrugged.
“Turn around. Hands behind your backs.”
They complied and handcuffs were snapped on their wrists. The cold steel bit into Grant’s skin, tight enough to cut off his circulation.
The chief’s associate patted them down and pulled the gun from Grant’s waistband.
The chief tsk-tsked. “Oh, senor, this is no good.”
Grant glared at Tedesco as they were led outside.
The young waitress blocked their exit. She shoved past the police officers and cupped Tedesco’s face in her hands. “Gracias. Thank you. Muchos gracias.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
The red flush rising on his face was worth the price of admission.
The chief ushered them out and the young girl gripped Grant’s arm. “Lo siento.” I’m sorry.
Grant nodded and smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”
The two of them were led two blocks along a very pleasant cobblestone street and escorted into an old adobe building. Police headquarters. It was the San Blas version of Mayberry’s jail house. A desk, a few chairs, a ceiling fan swirling the warm air, and through a wood interior door, two jail cells.
After being searched, fingerprinted, and their pictures taken, they were pushed inside one of the cells. The door clanged shut behind them. Their captors instructed them to back up to the bars and their cuffs were removed. Grant turned as the wooden door banged shut, followed by the sound of a key turning its latch.
The resemblance to Mayberry’s jail ended at the door. The cell consisted of two cots attached to each side of the wall, a small barred window, and a dilapidated filth encrusted toilet. Though no flies currently buzzed around the commode, its grime-covered porcelain evoked images of them swarming.
Grant wanted to be angry at Tedesco, to blame him for this predicament, but to be honest he admired the way the man had stepped in. Stupid. But brave. Grant would have just pulled his gun and sent them on their way. Shoot them if necessary. But the chief probably wouldn’t have appreciated his nephew being shot.
Grant had the sudden urge to sing: Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nope, nobody knew the sorrow. He moved to the bunk on the right side of the cell, the farthest from the toilet. He shivered. Ugh. With the palm of his hand he attempted to slap the dust off the rough wool blanket covering the bunk, then picked up the pillow and did the same.
He waved away the newly formed dust cloud and plopped onto the mattress, on his back, so his face didn’t have to touch the fabric.
“What are you doing?” Tedesco asked.
“I’m going to sleep.” Grant covered his eyes with an arm. What else was there to do?
TWENTY-TWO
The Costa de Oro was everything that could be expected of an ocean front resort. An older yet well kept hotel whose main structure had been built to loosely resemble an Aztec pyramid. Gleaming pools, thatch-roofed bars, and a strip of stark-white sandy beach. In tropical Mazatlán no less. But after an entire day of waiting around and a full eight hours of sleep, Jaime became restless and frustrated. All this running went against the grain. She was a GS 13, the highest level of field agent in the most powerful law enforcement agency in the world, with an office full of commendations. And here she sat. Hiding. Waiting. Skulking in the shadows like the criminals she spent her life tracking down. Enough.
Now that Dr. Morgan’s family had been liberated from the kidnappers, all bets were off, all promises null-and-void.
Under different circumstances, here, just as in Puerto Vallarta, she would be in heaven. Having taken little vacation during her career she had been to few places when she wasn’t working. Most of her off time spent visiting her parents. Here she was, surrounded by beauty in a suite decorated in cheery tones of aqua and yellow. But the room still seemed a prison.
Jaime clutched the phone to her ear. Her frustration mounted as once again her call rolled into Steve Jenson’s voice mail. The greeting recorded yesterday. She hung up, having already left two messages. Who to call? Cane had to be stopped. Now.
She leaned forward, elbows on knees, a finger tapping her lips. Grant was in trouble. She knew it. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew.
* * * * *
Colonel Ethan Cane leaned forward in his chair, the tip of the walking stick between his feet, hands on the crook. He stared at the computer’s monitor. The split-screen showed real-time video from two surveillance teams. The left side showed an image of Charlotte Sawyer’s residence. A nice yet modest home on a quiet street near Brandon, Mississippi. The right side of the monitor pictured the busy streets outside of the FBI field office in Dallas.
Cane removed two sets of files from the pile on his desk. Dossiers of Steve Jenson and Charlotte Sawyer. He thumbed through Ms. Sawyer’s file, searching for anything new with no luck. He scanned her face and those of her children in still photographs. Invading these people’s privacy made him feel slimy. But he needed to cover the bases. At some point Grant Sawyer would contact one of them and right now they were Cane’s only link to finding the man.
He moved the cursor over the screen, clicked the mouse, and brought up another video image. This one of Shannon Chamberlain’s home.
The colonel leaned back in his chair, laying the walking stick across his lap. He hadn’t really expected to see anything useful, he just needed to occupy his mind.
Cane had to admit to himself that he was going way, way, off the reservation. This project was too important. But did the end always truly justify the means?
* * * * *
The deputy banged on the bars with his nightstick, rousing Grant from a sweat-soaked sleep. Night had fallen and sounds of flamenco music drifted through the window.
The officer tossed handcuffs into the cell and waited while Tedesco and Grant slipped them over their wrists. He motioned them forward and reached through the bars to ensure they were fastened properly. The other deputy stood nearby, a hand on his pistola.
After unlocking the door the deputies shoved the two prisoners into the office. The chief, Cristobal Vasquez, according to the nameplate on his desk, leaned back in his seat, shoes propped on his desk. He pointed to a pair of chairs across the desk from him. With a shove for emphasis from the deputy Grant and Tedesco accepted the invitation to sit.
Chief Vasquez dropped his feet to the floor, leaned forward, and propped his elbows on the desk. He smiled. The expression greasy enough to lubricate the bearings on the old Ford pickup. “We seem to have a difficult situation. I planned to simply hold you for the night. You know, to let you cool your hot heads. But …” He opened a desk drawer, removed Grant’s SIG and the MP-5’s, and set them on the desk.
So. They had located the Ford.
“This is very bad. Possession of these weapons is punishable by imprisonment.” The chief leaned back and crossed
his arms. “Not to mention that you have no papers. You are here illegally.” He gestured at some documents stacked on the right side of the desk. “Mr. Sawyer.” He nodded toward Grant and thumbed through the pages. “A former FBI agent should know better.” He turned his gaze on Tedesco and lifted the stack of paper. “Your fingerprints are not on record. And I can find no record of anyone matching the name on your license. Mr. Rivers.” He raised his eyebrows and stared at them. Waiting for one of them to speak.
Grant returned the chief’s stare, and then glanced toward Tedesco. Before he could stem the impulse Grant spoke. “We’re just doing our part to balance things out, chief. You know, illegal immigration and all.”
Tedesco elbowed Grant, but the chief smiled.
“Ahh, very good. Funny.” He dropped the smile. “Do you have anything else to say on your behalf?”
Tedesco shifted in his chair obviously searching for something, anything, to say.
“This is all a mistake, chief,” Grant said. “I’m still with the FBI.” He waved his thumb between himself and Tedesco. “We’re working on a joint task force with the Federal Judicial Police to stem the tide of illegal drugs.”
“Oh, yes. Sure, sure,” Vasquez said. “I guess you just lost your identification.” He waved his hand over the weapons. “And these I suppose are not really yours at all?”
“We’re undercover. We’ve been trying to infiltrate a smuggling operation based near here. We were just in town to follow a lead. While we were eating the trouble started. Just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Grant nodded his head at the guns. “As for those.” He shrugged. “We had to look the part.”
The chief appeared to be mulling it over. He knew as well as Grant that the Federal Judicial Police, Mexico’s version of the FBI, would just as likely be involved in any corrupt activities as trying to stop them.
“Look. All it will take is one call. Contact the FBI’s legal attaché at the American embassy in Mexico City.” Grant leaned forward, the more outrageous the lie, the more detail needed to be supplied. He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial tone. “I shouldn’t tell you this,” he almost gagged on this next part, “but you seem to be an honest man. You obviously take your job seriously.” Grant looked left and right, pretending to make sure no one else could eavesdrop. “The operation’s code name is Jackrabbit.”
“Jackrabbit?” The chief said.
Grant leaned back in his chair and nodded. “Jackrabbit.”
Chief Vasquez motioned to his deputies and they moved to escort the two men back to their cell.
“Wait,” Grant resisted the tugging on his arm and called over his shoulder. “Don’t we get a phone call?”
The chief chuckled. “My friend, this is not America. We have no Miranda rights here. It is at my discretion what you get.” A nod from him hastened their trip back to the cell.
“Excuse me, chief.” Tedesco turned, causing the deputy behind him to slam into his broad back. “Did you find a Bible in my things?”
“Si.”
“May I have it? Please?”
Chief Vasquez huffed a breath through his nostrils before digging in his desk drawer and extracting the damaged book. He tossed it to one of the deputies.
“Gracias.” Tedesco barely had time to spit out the word before another more forceful shove sent him toward the cell.
Once the cuffs were off and the door banged shut on them again, Tedesco plopped onto his bunk, Bible clutched in his hands. “Jackrabbit?”
Grant shrugged. “It’s the best I could come up with on short notice.”
Tedesco shook his head. “What happens when he finds out your story is a complete and total fabrication?”
“Look, I bought us some time.” Grant sat on his own bunk. “Besides, I didn’t hear you coming up with anything better.”
“What now?”
“All we need is a little luck.”
“Luck?”
Grant pulled up his pants leg and reached into his sock, extracting a toothpick. “Luck favors the prepared. I palmed it when we were leaving the restaurant.”
“Great,” Tedesco said. “The fight against plaque will be won.”
“Oh, yea of little faith.” Grant replaced the toothpick in his sock. “If they bring us out again, I can use it to pick the cuffs. If not, I may be able to jimmy the lock.”
“I don’t think that’s a wise move,” Tedesco said.
“Maybe, maybe not. But I’m sure not going to a Mexican prison. In case you haven’t heard, that’s not a place you want to be.” Grant stood and went to peer through the barred window, scanning the street for anything out of the ordinary. “Besides. I’m afraid the local constabulary here may be the least of our worries.”
* * * * *
Tedesco lay on his bunk, unable to return to sleep. Occasionally the sounds of a hushed conversation from passersby would drift through the window. Moonlight filtered through the leaves of a palm planted near the window, the wind in its fronds made shadowy silhouettes dance on the ceiling and walls. He thought about the first night he spent in jail. He was sixteen, a little over a year after he left home. He got picked up for drunk and disorderly at a bar. Though underage, he never got carded due to his size. The disorderly part was caused by a fight. A sleazy guy had been hassling the female bartender. Tedesco asked him to quit and the guy took offense. Tedesco evaded a sucker punch that would have ended the fight before it began. Though his opponent had been a lot older, Tedesco had won, barely. When the cops arrived and found out he was underage he had been carted off to the police station and thrown in the tank. Man, he had been scared. The room was full of miscreants of all shapes and sizes. To teach him a lesson his uncle had left him to stew for the night before bailing him out. Again, due to his size, he was left alone. But there was a guy, a businessman, still dressed in coat and tie, probably in for drunk driving or some minor offense. He huddled in the corner, attempting to be invisible. One of the sharks in the tank smelled the blood. A huge tattooed bruiser decided to while away the hours with his own brand of entertainment and started roughing the businessman up. Tedesco stepped in and almost took another beating for his trouble. That’s the way it had always been with him. He couldn’t stand bullies, anyone who preyed on those weaker than themselves. Even after he started using his skills as an assassin, he still lived by a code. He sighed. Or at least that’s what he told himself.
Tedesco clutched the Bible to his chest and lolled his head to the side. Grant lay on the next bunk, an arm draped over his eyes, but he didn’t appear to be sleeping either.
“Can’t sleep?” Tedesco whispered, just in case he was mistaken.
“No. Just thinking.”
Tedesco was doing some thinking of his own. He had been holding something back from Grant about the death of his family. Tedesco wanted to tell him but was afraid. Not of the circumstances it might cause for him, but what affect it might have on Grant. The information may not only send him into a blind rage, but depending on what course of action he chose, could do far more harm than good. But still, Tedesco believed he owed him the entire truth.
“Can I ask you something?” Tedesco said.
“What? Again with the questions?”
“What was it like?” Tedesco swallowed. “I mean … after your family died.”
Grant rose up on an elbow. “You mean after you killed them?”
“Yes.”
“What are you looking for here Jimmy? A Hallmark moment?”
“I don’t know.” Tedesco swallowed again. “I just need to know what it was like for you.”
Grant stared for a moment and finally shrugged his shoulders. “It sucked.” He lay back down.
“Umm. Sucked? Care to elaborate?” Tedesco realized he was pushing it.
“You mean how was it besides the absolute, all-consuming, pervasive grief over losing nearly everyone I cared about in the world?”
For a second Tedesco thought Grant was going to erupt in an
ger but he didn’t.
Grant sighed, long and loud. “You know what the worst thing was?”
Before Tedesco could respond Grant continued.
“My friends and co-workers. They didn’t know how to talk to me. What to say. People began avoiding me. Afraid to say the wrong thing.” Grant threw an arm over his face. “Jaime and my boss, Steve Jenson, were the only people there for me.” He sat up, placing his elbows on his knees. “We belonged to a church. Attended regularly, especially Susan and Sawyer.” His voice cracked a bit at the mention of his wife and son. “I went whenever I could. After they died some of the members would drop by to check on me. Bring food. I appreciated it. But after a while it seemed their attempts at comfort were so trite. Spewing platitudes like … God will see you through it … Your family is with Him.” Grant slammed the edge of his fist on the mattress. “My favorite was time heals all wounds.” He shook his head. “Time. Heals. What a load of crap.” Grant pointed a finger. “And even worse. I worked for the FBI. We knew who did it and nobody would do one damn thing about it.” He dropped his hand. “Well, by God, it cost me my career, but I did something.”
“I’m sorry.” Tedesco wished he could convey how truly and deeply sorry he was. He sat up, to look the man in the eye he had hurt so deeply, one palm on the Bible. “I really am sorry.” Now. The time to tell him was now.
“I realize that, Jimmy.” Grant scrubbed his hands over his face before dropping them to the bunk. “But it doesn’t change what you did.” He lay down and rolled onto his side, facing the wall. “I can’t absolve you anyway. Now, enough talk. Get some sleep. I have a feeling tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
Tedesco lay back on his pillow. His thumb caressed the damaged pages of the Bible. “So. What’s the deal with you and Jaime?”
“Shut up, Jimmy.”
The Assassin's Case Page 18
