AGAINST THE WIND (Book Two of The Miami Crime Trilogy)

by Don Donovan

  People got out of the vehicles and stood in the headlights. Two men stepped out of the SUV. He ID'd Bebop exiting the BMW from the passenger side. Three others got out with him, two black men and a white woman, one of the men from the driver's side, the other man and the woman from the back seat. They stood with their backs to Desi, Bebop blocked by the men and the woman who positioned themselves behind him. The groups exchanged words, then Bebop walked to the center to meet the others. The woman went with him. She carried the briefcase.

  A loud siren cut the relative silence of the night and everyone looked to the source. It came from I-95, a cop car speeding by on its way somewhere, not here.

  They all turned their attention back to the deal. Desi could not fix his crosshairs on Bebop because the woman was tall, nearly as tall as he was, and she stood behind him and a little to the right, the perfect spot for blockage. He wanted a clean head shot, because he knew for deals of this size, the participants often wore vests under their clothing. His gun might penetrate it, but only if the vest were a cheaper model, thinner and less resistant to the Huldra's 5.56-caliber round. Desi had decided Bebop's head would instead take the bullet.

  Desi squirmed and made a pass at his sweaty forehead with his sleeve, scratched his nose, then returned to the scope. Bebop and the woman made minimal movements. Cutting the bag of coke, testing it … he couldn't line up a clean shot. The top of Bebop's head rose above the woman's but it made for a very small target. Desi couldn't draw a reliable bead on him.

  The briefcases were exchanged and they backed toward their vehicles. Still the woman was in the way. They got to within ten feet of their car and turned around to walk forward. The two other men headed to separate sides in order to enter their original positions in the car. Bebop and the woman appeared to do the same, he to the front seat, she to the back. Bebop's head was finally in the crosshairs by himself, the woman slightly to his right. Desi's finger wrapped around the trigger.

  At the exact moment Desi mentally committed to squeezing the trigger, the woman whirled around to give Bebop a big hug. The sudden movement, coming at the very moment he squeezed the trigger, caused a slight involuntary jerk in his aim. The weapon fired, a relatively soft pop, and the round hit her between the shoulder blades instead of her head, splattering her insides all over Bebop's shirt. Despite the fact the round was a hollow-point, it went through the woman's body and struck Bebop in the chest, throwing him backward to the ground. Desi's suspicions about the vest were confirmed as Bebop struggled to his feet and instinctively ducked behind the car, as did the other men. Alicia's clients near the Land Rover darted inside it and rapidly backed it up toward the entrance, spitting gravel all the way. Bebop and the other men returned fire, but their aim was way off, firing in all directions, not knowing exactly where the shot had come from.

  Desi scrambled back through the hole in the fence and sprinted for his Escalade. He heard someone yell, "There! There! In the street!" More gunshots, all wild, as he scrambled for his SUV in its darkened parking spot, sparked the engine, and raced out of there. He sped down State Road 7 to 125th Street and from there to I-95 southbound, where he melted into nighttime traffic.

  17

  Josh

  Deerfield Beach, Florida

  Saturday, April 7, 2012

  7:05 PM

  TONI YAWNED.

  "How much farther?" she said, relaxing her posture behind the wheel.

  "Not long," Josh replied as he climbed into the front seat of the white Hyundai. "We just crossed into Broward County."

  "So what does that mean?" She pulled out to pass a pickup truck towing a boat.

  "It means we're not far from where we're going. Maybe an hour or so away. I'm supposed to text our location to this guy right now."

  He shot off the text — I'm in Broward — then consulted the GPS for further directions. They appeared to be a little less than an hour from their destination. Within moments, he got the return text from the guy in acknowledgement: E Hialeah. U know the place.

  "Can we get something to eat after we drop off his car?" Toni asked. "I'm starving."

  Josh looked her over. She must have weighed all of a hundred pounds, maybe one-oh-five tops. "Starving" for her was certainly relative.

  "Sure," he said. "We'll find a good spot."

  "Somebody I know took a pretty good nap back there?" She tossed her head toward the back seat. "Gee, you didn't move since Orlando."

  "Yeah, I'm fine. But we'll get some good sleep tonight."

  She cast a sidelong glance at him, a half-smile. "We will?"

  "Yeah. We've got a room somewhere."

  "Somewhere?" she said, still smirking. "Why, Josh b'gosh, you don't know where?"

  He maintained a straight face and looked out the windshield. "We're going to pick up another car at the same place we drop this one off. There'll be a hotel reservation for us on the seat."

  "Oooo, sounds mysterious! I feel like we're spies or something."

  Josh chuckled. "Yeah, spies. That's us."

  Her imagination took over and, holding onto the wheel with her left hand, she began moving her right in time with her speech. "I can see it now. We get in the car and meet some stranger in a trenchcoat in a dark alley and he gives you a key to a bus locker someplace that holds a briefcase and you handcuff it to your wrist." She shivered a little. "Ooo, this is exciting!"

  Josh thought, I wonder if this was how she was growing up. So easily pleased. Her parents back in — where did she say? Bayshore? — probably had a smooth time raising her if she was like this the whole time.

  "Don't get too hopped up," he said. "We're just picking up another car and going to a hotel."

  "Mmm, I'm starting to like that part. The hotel, I mean. But can we eat first? Pleeeease?"

  "Yeah, of course. Like I said. We'll grab something as soon as we get the other car."

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  As Josh predicted, an hour later, they arrived at an alley off East 25th Street in Hialeah. Toni maneuvered the car down an alley and around behind a long strip of retail operations which fronted 25th Street … back doors, the occasional small loading dock. Two white vans sat in the near darkness with space for a car between them.

  "This is it," Josh said. "Pull in here. Between these vans."

  She did and they got out. They looked around. Nobody in sight. A pale wash of thin light drifted back there from the street. Josh saw a car parked on the other side of one of the vans. Ford Focus, looked like it was about ten to twelve years old.

  "That's it," he said. "That's ours. Put the keys to the Hyundai on the floor."

  They retrieved their luggage from the Hyundai's trunk, one carry-on bag each. Toni had wanted to pack a regular-sized suitcase. "We're going to Florida for a few days. I've just got to bring more things," she'd said. Josh told her they could have a great time with the bare minimum, emphasizing the word "bare". She got the idea.

  As expected, the Focus keys were on the floor. They got in and Josh fired it up. Toni flipped on the interior light and read the reservation document in the glove box.

  "Airport Hilton," she said. Her big, round eyes had a puzzled look in them, which made them look much bigger and much rounder. "Why are we staying there? Why don't we stay on the beach somewhere?"

  "The Hilton'll be okay," Josh said. "I'm sure it'll be fine." He pulled out of the space and turned on the specially installed GPS for the directions to the Airport Hilton which he knew would be in there.

  18

  Alicia

  Miami, Florida

  Saturday, April 7, 2012

  7:10 PM

  THE TEXT FLOWED INTO ALICIA'S THROWAWAY phone: I'm in Broward. It was from the mule. Alicia texted back: E Hialeah. U know the place.

  She had never met this mule, and probably never would. But she'd had these little text talks with guys just like him over the last several years and she wondered now what this one looked like.

  She knew he was probably somewhere around twent
y-one or two and a college student, but which college? What did he want to do with his life when he graduated? And how about the girl traveling with him? What was her name? Were they lovers? Did they do coke together? Or were they just impersonal partners in this dry, repetitive task? Or maybe brother and sister.

  Knowing the mule had just crossed into Broward County and was still about sixty minutes from his destination, Alicia was in no particular hurry. She finished a little paperwork and a few minutes later, got up from her desk and went into the living room. Nick had finished working an hour or so ago and now pushed a big orange rubber ball back and forth across the floor with Francesca. Lots of smiles and squeals.

  "Honey," she said to Nick, "I have to run to the store. I'll be back in a couple of hours."

  He frowned before rolling the ball back to Francesca. "At this hour?"

  "A problem's come up. We've got this delivery scheduled to go out tomorrow and it got messed up. I have to go in and take care of it."

  "Can't you stay home for a while? You've been gone so much lately." His tone told her he was not pleased.

  She went over to him and bent down, putting her hand on the back of his neck. "I know, baby. But this can't wait. I'll be back soon, I promise." She kissed him and went over to little Francesca, who was still smiling.

  "Mommy, are you going away?" she asked.

  "No, sweetie. I'm just going out for a short time. I'll be back very soon with a Dilly Bar. Would my baby like a Dilly Bar?"

  "Oooh, will you bring me one back?" she asked, already savoring her favorite Dairy Queen treat. "Will you, Mommy?"

  "Yes, I will, Princess. Just for you. I'll be back before you know it."

  Francesca gave out with a light yelp and pushed the ball excitedly back toward a disheartened Nick as Alicia headed out the door, where Berto waited in an idling Lexus sedan.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  At about ten minutes to eight, the Lexus arrived at the alley in Hialeah which led to the small deserted parking area behind Computer Superstore of the Americas.

  "Go past the alley," Alicia said to Berto. "Park over there by that black car. Shut off the lights."

  Berto parked on the other side of the black car, which was stationed in a diagonal spot in front of a little food market in a long strip center on East 25th Street. CSA was one of the bigger stores in this center, located a little farther down the street, but the food market was the only business open at this hour. Their position behind the black car afforded them a full view of East 25th Street and the alley while appearing to be food market customers.

  Before long, the white Hyundai appeared with two people in it, turned into the alley and vanished from sight. About two minutes later, a black Ford Focus emerged from the alley, also with two people, and pulled onto 25th Street, heading west for the short trip to the airport hotel.

  Alicia signaled Berto to go into the alley. He did and they made the turn behind the strip center. The only source of nearby light back there was a single streetlamp by the edge of the alley some fifty yards away, not illuminating much more than the pavement directly beneath it. Two CSA vans stood behind the store, with one space between them which was filled by a white 2005 basic-model Hyundai. The car had been stolen in Boston a week or so earlier and its fake New York license plate had ensured it would never be spotted during its final trip. Alicia opened the driver's side door and shined a penlight inside. Keys on the floor.

  Hidden from view by the two vans, she opened the passenger side back door. Berto removed a knife from his pocket and flicked the blade open. He sliced a rectangular pattern, opening up the passenger side of the back seat. Underneath the stuffing lay a black carry-on suitcase, bulging at the seams. After a quick look around, he jerked it out and handed it to Alicia, who unzipped it, and saw the money.

  That was how it went with all of her mules. Clean-cut college kids from four cities — Philadelphia, Chicago, Atlanta, New York — kids who had been vetted by cartel people and who were eager to make some easy money. All they had to do was drive to Miami when they were told. Usually, they traveled in pairs, male and female, to give off the appearance of an attractive young couple on vacation.

  Why yes, officer. We're just going to Florida for a few days to soak up some sun.

  For that matter, once in a while they would even be carrying tickets for a weekend cruise to the Bahamas, in case some nosy cop needed real convincing. It never came to that, though, because these mules always stayed at five miles under the speed limit and up till now, had never been stopped by the law. Furthermore, they kept enough tourist regalia — suntan lotion, extra flip-flops, People Magazine, and so on — in plain sight all over the back seat so as to dissuade any peering cops from thinking they had probable cause to search the vehicle.

  The cars were all selected for their ordinariness, but in fact cartel people had outfitted each with a special GPS unit that could not only reveal their location, but how fast they were going, when and where they stopped, and for how long. All this data was recorded and stored on a special app installed in very special cell phones held only by Alicia and a couple of others in Colombia, cell phones that were used for that purpose only.

  None of the mules knew what the cars contained, nor were they stupid enough to ask. In fact, all of the cash collected from all of the cartel's drug sales east of the Mississippi was gathered together in hidden locations within the cities where the sales were made. In those small, secure rooms — under close supervision by trusted associates — worker bees colored up the cash from fives and tens and twenties to banded packets of hundred-dollar bills. An army of other mules then drove other cars, with this cash buried in them, to New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Atlanta. Once all the money was funneled into those four cities — and that was virtually a round-the-clock operation in itself — the mules from those towns brought it to Miami, into the waiting arms of Alicia López.

  This procedure was repeated at irregular intervals. Sometimes weekly, sometimes bi-weekly, sometimes less frequently than that, but always designed to avoid any pattern of discernible activity. The Feds were out there, twenty-four hours a day, with watchful eyes in every corner of the country, looking for anything out of the ordinary, anything suspicious, the slimmest thread on which they could begin building a case. And many cases were made because people got sloppy and started doing the same thing over and over in a predictable manner.

  Berto waited outside and dialed up a cartel-friendly wrecker service in Hialeah to send a tow truck for the Hyundai. They would haul it to their scrapyard where it would meet its fate with a crusher the following morning. While Berto made the call, Alicia unlocked the rear door to CSA and took the suitcase inside where she brought it into her vault, located in a hidden space behind a sliding panel in her office.

  The vault was a cozy walk-in, six and a half feet wide by eight feet deep, with a ceiling about eight feet high. Not even the store employees knew it existed. A large safe stood against the far wall, and overhead LED lighting was controlled by a switch inside the sliding panel. On the floor were four other such suitcases piled one atop another, each bursting with money. Other mules had delivered them in the last few days from Chicago, Atlanta, and Philadelphia, as well as one bag from South Florida itself. She had already counted the cash from those deliveries, so she had only to tally this New York money.

  On a small table sat a sophisticated counting machine, and Alicia pulled up the swivel chair in front of it. She began the tedious process of inserting the money into it, one packet at a time, until it was totaled up.

  ≈ ≈ ≈

  When the final packet ruffled its way through the machine, Alicia now had her total for all five suitcases: seven million, eight hundred seventy thousand dollars, not a jaw-dropping figure, but a decent week's take, and an exact match with what she was told to expect. A few fast clicks on her calculator told her the amount of her commission, although she didn't really need to perform that little manual task. Her brain instantly calculated h
er cut would come to three hundred fourteen thousand, eight hundred dollars. According to custom, she removed this amount of cash from the final bag and placed it in the safe.

  She pulled out her cell phone and texted a ten-digit tracking number to the mule.

  19

  Josh

  Miami, Florida

  Saturday, April 7, 2012

  9:30 PM

  RIGHT AFTER CHECKING INTO THE HILTON, Josh set his bag down and plopped onto the bed, flicking on the TV. Toni had used the time to snuggle up against him on the bed, murmuring honeyed words that he never heard because of the high TV volume. He was watching Iron Man 2, and he wanted to absorb all of its explosions and crashes as they were meant to be absorbed.

  Toni was getting comfortable, draping a leg over Josh's lower regions, while Josh was getting annoyed. He struggled with how he was going to break it to her, the fact they weren't going to have any kind of romantic vacation. Just as he was honing in on the right approach, a particularly loud explosion occurred in the movie. He almost didn't hear the text alert, but his phone was on his chest, so he grabbed it and sat up, jostling Toni out of her dreamy state.

  The text was a ten-digit number, along with an address. The address he knew to be a Western Union outpost close by.

  "What is it?" Toni asked, not quite shaken from her reverie.