Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  Baldy thought for a moment and his two fellow marshals fidgeted.

  “Forty-five seconds,” Tommy said. To María Elena, he said, “If he fucks up, kill him.” She wouldn’t of course, but Baldy didn’t know that.

  “A bonus,” Tommy told him. “You can have the two weapons from the body guards which likely aren’t registered. That should give you grounds for a warrant to search Santana’s suite. Never know what you’ll find. Thirty seconds.”

  “I’m dropping my gun,” said Baldy, squatting to put it on the ground. His fellows did the same.

  “Better hurry,” Tommy said. Twenty seconds.”

  They fumbled out and awkwardly snapped handcuffs. They ran over the one minute limit. But Tommy was satisfied. He glanced around. People quickly dressed in night clothes or shorts were staring at the tableau. He tried to spot the cops over near the fire trucks but couldn’t, and that was not a good thing. He pocketed the .22 and fished out the bodyguards’ guns. He ejected the magazines and kicked them aside.

  “Lie down on the ground, face down, right now.” He tossed the two automatics at the feet of the lawmen. He patted the blonde on the ass and whispered in her ear, “Thanks for being a good sport.”

  Her eyes were grateful even though her face showed fear. Tommy guessed he still had the look.

  “Santana, next time no talk. Just one shot from afar.” He motioned to María Elena. “Go ahead to the car, we gotta be off this key before they close the bridge on us.” He doubted they’d buy the misdirection for long.

  María Elena disappeared behind an SUV. Tommy surveyed his immediate surroundings. He waved his handgun and watchers ducked. Immediately, he faded behind the SUV.

  The smell of burning garbage permeated the air.

  María Elena was waiting for him inside the pine tree line. Tommy threw his firefighter gear over a bush hoping the silhouette would buy them a few more minutes.

  They wound their way through the mangroves and soon were at the boat.

  The pushed it into the water and María Elena jumped in. He ran a few more feet, shoved hard, and swung aboard. They both paddled swiftly.

  “Don’t you have to pee bad?” Tommy asked quietly.

  “Yes, but I’ll hold it.”

  “What a fucking circus,” Tommy said.

  “You have a good rifle,” she said coyly. “Next time why don’t you just shoot the son of a bitch?”

  “Blood thirsty wench.” Tommy sighed. Women. He stumbled over a couple of fishing rods and stepped to the console. He started the engine and swung toward the mainland. “You’re probably right,” he said, swinging the wheel. “The best plans are the simplest. That one had too many elements which could go wrong. Not to mention too many people around. That’s dangerous in itself.”

  “I admire the way you barely looked at that woman’s breasts,” María Elena said. She dropped her robe and removed the pajamas. She started dressing in her jeans and sweatshirt.

  “Sarcasm does not fit you well,” he said, admiring her body, what he could see in the dark.

  “Tommy? Don’t hit that channel marker.”

  He swung left thinking they were taking a chance running without lights.

  “Look,” she said and pointed up and toward the north. A helicopter sporting a spotlight was coming out over the water. “It’ll be here in a minute.”

  “Two choices,” he said as he pulled back the throttle. “We can strip and show them we’re out here for a little boat sex or we can pretend to night fish.”

  “Fishing,” she chose immediate. “If it’s sex, they might hover to watch and we don’t want the extra attention.”

  She handed him a pole and found an empty beer can on the floor. Quickly she took off her sweat shirt and grabbed the beer can again. She did not need a bra

  Tommy recognized that a little risqué was better than blatant. He grinned his appreciation. Small waves slapped at the hull.

  The light hit them and centered them. Tommy hoped their wake had dissipated. He held the fishing pole over the side. They both shaded their eyes and María Elena held up the beer can to them invitingly and opened her arms showing off her breasts. Party girl. The chopper moved on almost reluctantly.

  Tommy dropped the pole and advanced the throttle. They needed to get out of town fast. The marshals had somehow identified them, or him, and predicted after the Hamilton hit that he would go after Santana next. And they were right. He hated to be predictable. He was smarter than that. And he regretted the ostentatious mess he’d created tonight. There were too many opportunities for it to go wrong. And way too many witnesses.

  And why the hell had he worried about the cameras earlier? Here he was in the middle of a bunch of evacuees and wandering around like they’re lost. And firefighters and police not a hundred yards away. And then he was identified by name by the U.S. Marshal Service. What sense did that make? Not that his position with the law wasn’t totally untenable, but they’d just compounded it. The Marshal Service apparently had a long institutional memory; and this episode was going to refresh it and boost their enthusiasm for hunting down one each Tommy Atkins.

  And he should have considered that Santana might be under surveillance, not just because of him, but because of who the old man was. They probably had his condo wired. Tommy cursed himself for so blindly walking into a trap. But he didn’t regret not killing the old guy; hell, he’d worked for Santana for a while. The guy had been a decent boss and paid well. And the reward was only natural; any man would do the same when someone killed his son. Not to mention he’d chosen his bimbo of the week well: that girl had spunk.

  María Elena moved back and stood beside him. She linked her arm in his. “What’s up with U. S. Marshals?”

  He shook his head. “It makes little sense. FBI sure. But U.S. Marshal Service? It’s unlikely they’re even authorized to place surveillance on Santana. So it follows they were after us—or me.”

  María Elena wrapped her arms around his left arm. “We’ve graduated from Mexican assassins and gangbangers to mob hitmen to U.S. Marshals. So, what’s next?”

  He pulled her closer. “It’s gonna take more than a few marshals to figure what we’re up to. Have to be someone smarter than those three.” But he wondered. It didn’t matter though. They were going to do this. María Elena performed her part very well. And she had improvised when it counted, and followed his lead. He’d never expected to get a proficient partner out of all this. He hoped they hadn’t seen her well enough to identify her. It was probably against the law to interfere with U.S. Marshals doing their official duty and sticking a gun against their head. His eyes became distracted. “You might want to put your sweatshirt back on before we hit land.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “Upon further consideration, this operation, as fucked up as it was, served an additional purpose. While our intention was to clear the decks of major obstacles to our living happily ever after, it also might well send a confusing message to whoever or whatever agency is managing the search and destroy mission against us. They might now think that we’re just playing get even with my enemies and therefore fail to prepare for us down in Miami. Hopefully, they won’t send your soon-to-be late husband a warning.”

  “Yes, Tommy. I gotta pee bad.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: HER

  The Tamiami Trail used to be the major route from Tampa to Naples and then across Florida to Miami, all via U.S. Highway 41. Nowadays, U.S. 41 from Tampa to Naples is one traffic signal after another, one fast food restaurant after another, one car dealer after another. Concrete, steel, asphalt. Then 41 runs to Miami, a two-lane rough road nicknamed “Alligator Alley.” To get to Miami nowadays, you take I-75 south to Naples whereupon I-75 turns from a north-south corridor to an east-west corridor. An eighty mile stretch called the Everglades Parkway. Outside of Naples heading east toward Miami, the Florida panther roams and you can see black bear and deer. The Interstate skirts through the Everglades and the Big Cypress Swamp, both of which
are mostly the same, only with different names. It is a lonesome road, except for cars and trucks and SUV’s flying across the state with their air conditioning on high.

  María Elena was driving a Nissan 4X4 pickup, a tough vehicle she liked immediately.

  She was worrying about Miami. She checked her speed and kept it on 70, the maximum, so as to not attract attention. Back when she lived in Miami, she drove around the area, Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, Key West, wherever, at higher speeds: everybody did so. If you went too slowly, they’d run over you. Unless the traffic was gridlocked, this circumstance occurred seemingly half the time. Upon reflection, she was glad she’d spent a lot of time in the swamps and uninhabited areas of Dade County driving anything with two or more wheels. This skill had certainly come in handy. Big wheel trucks, four-wheel drive Jeeps, and three and four wheel ATV’s splashing through swamps and mud and through dusty fields. She even drove most of the military vehicles during her weapons training at 13’s expansive training grounds. She grinned to herself deciding that she didn’t know back then that she needed to get a life. Well, now she had one, God help her.

  “What are we going to do to Don Diego?” she asked, already knowing the answer, but needing a way to address it.

  “Kill him dead,” said Tommy matter-of-factly. He was reading Guns, Germs, and Steel. He didn’t look up.

  “While I’ve seen a lot of blood lately, necessary blood I admit, I’m not fully comfortable with killing Diego.”

  “You know the answer, college girl. He threw you to the wolves, rape and murder. He killed your father. He stole 13 de enero. He engaged in human trafficking, from what you’ve said. Selling people for debts? For wanting to come to this country and freedom? Add to that laundry list drugs. More…”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Don’t worry, Emmy, I’ll take care of him. I have been anticipating that very thing. I can almost taste it.” He smacked his lips and looked at her. “We cannot continue with him still alive. It’s also a travesty what he’s doing.”

  “I know you’re right, we have to do it. It’s just, well, I’ve tried and can’t think of another way.”

  “You ain’t gonna, either.” He closed the book. María Elena knew he did not turn the corner of a page down to mark his place; he simply remembered the page number. “That Santana thing in Sarasota was a frigging circus and I don’t want to repeat that.”

  She looked to the south. Somewhere out there was where Tommy had spent years of his life secluded—until she had come along. She smiled at him. “You could still be sitting out there among the mosquitoes and snakes and gators minding your own business.”

  “My whole life, hon, it built towards this, towards here and now. So, it don’t matter what went before, just that it led me here.”

  “That’s sweet. Thank you, dear.”

  He winked at her. “The road’s in front of us.”

  She switched her eyes forward. “Since this all started, I’ve been through a bloodbath. Make that ‘we’. I didn’t know the world was anything like this. Except I knew horror from stories of Castro’s prisons and torture chambers.”

  “This is the real world, college girl.”

  “I know…but still…”

  “You’re not saying we done wrong here? We’ve produced too much blood on your behalf?”

  “No,” she said, tongue tied. “I don’t know, Tommy.”

  “It matters not, María Elena, for I am going to kill that motherfucker anyway.”

  “That might be easier said than done.”

  “Let me quote an old Bantu proverb: He who has caused thee to shed tears, cause him to shed blood.”

  “I was thinking out loud, Tommy, not challenging your abilities or manhood.”

  “Well, okay. But don’t you worry about blood, that’s my department. And I do like a challenge.” He laughed softly. “Though I must point out that lately you have done your share of shedding blood.”

  She reached over and patted his arm. “Yes, dear. I’m learning from the best.” She wondered whatever happened to that happy-go-lucky blogger girl with the fine heritage and promising future. She’d matured in a way she would never have envisioned. She stole a look at Tommy who was obviously still smiling at the memory of her shedding blood. She thought, I gotta admit I’m happier right now than I can remember being; and I am so happy I’ve fallen for this crusty guy twenty-some years older than I am. “I’m horny,” she said, surprising herself, too.

  “We’ll stop at Weston, just outside of Ft. Lauderdale. All the major roads intersect there. Small town hosting a dozen specialty hospitals and clinics and they’re used to strangers. We’ll fit right in. We can take the edge off of your horniness.”

  “I was thinking of pole dancing for you.”

  “Knock me over with a feather. What brought that on?”

  “I never had a reason before. I do now.” She looked at him with bedroom eyes.

  “Well, thank you, dear.” He scratched his head. “There’s a bar in Miami near the Cuban section where they have amateur pole dancing on Wednesday nights. Called ‘Rosey’s.’”

  “I think I remember it, over near Little Havana.” She lifted an eyelash. “And you know this how?”

  “I get around. Pole dancing is an art, if you do it right.”

  “Well I know that, sweetie.”

  “You’re not saying?” he asked wonderingly.

  “I am. I admit I do it for exercise and I try to do it aerobically. My friend Margarita is an instructor and I’ve taken her classes. I’ve even substituted running her class upon occasion. It helps me tremendously with flexibility.”

  He grinned at her. “I’ll say.”

  “I didn’t do it for sexual reasons. Exercise and flexibility.”

  “Everything you do is sexy.”

  She dimpled. “Just for you, Tommy.” She paused. “It’s why I’m pretty well trimmed. As if you hadn’t noticed.” She smiled fondly.

  “I wasn’t going to ask,” he said.

  “I also teach Zumba. That keeps me limber, too.” At his blank look, she added, “A workout routine to Latin music.”

  “My dear, they ought to change your name to Constance Surprise.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  “You shoot well, you drive like Kyle Busch, and pole dance.” He leered at her. “I like the limber part, too.”

  “I’m a woman of many talents,” she teased.

  He ignored her. “We’re early for check-in. Head for Hollywood.”

  They flew past Weston and the intersection of more major highways than should be legal. Hollywood is a town ensconced in between the metropolis of Miami and the metropolis of Ft. Lauderdale.

  They wound up at another self-storage facility, “U-Plenty Self-storage.” The gates were open and they drove in behind another car. Tommy directed her to unit 408, the fourth one in a row of ten buildings.

  Tommy got out and went to the door of the small unit. María Elena joined him.

  He scratched his head. “I always put a combo lock on these and I always use the same combination.” He held up a large key padlock.

  “Uh, oh,” she said.

  He let the padlock go. “Actually, I’m surprised of all of them only one’s gone. Let’s go to the office.”

  They drove back out of the storage yard to the office. It was air-conditioned, of course. A middle-aged woman sat at a counter chewing on a pencil. “Help you?”

  Tommy nodded. “My unit is 408 and that’s not my lock.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am. I paid for ten years in advance and I have seven to go.”

  “Lemme check.” She rolled her chair to her computer and grabbed the mouse. “408 is rented to a Boy Scout troop for their camping gear.”

  “I’m not mistaken about the number,” Tommy said. “I don’t confuse that way.”

  She looked up at him. “No, I don’t reckon you do.” She glanced at María Elena curiously. She shrugged. “I saw them unloadi
ng into 408 last weekend after a camping trip to the keys.” She turned back to the computer. “What’s your name? Maybe I have something on it.”

  “Atkins.”

  She typed in a search window. “Nothing.”

  María Elena stepped forward. “Check your spreadsheets or accounting program for statements or a paid receipt, something.”

  A few more clicks of the mouse and a couple of searches. “Got it. It was in there, scanned from before this program was installed. I don’t understand. There’s no evidence of you in the operations program.” She ran her finger down the monitor’s screen. “Yep. Paid in full in advance.” She rolled back. “Mister Atkins, I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “There can be only one answer,” he said.

  “I know, but I don’t have it. My husband and I bought this place last year--well, us and the bank, and those Boy Scouts were already in 408. I assure you, we didn’t steal the contents. Just a minute.” She went back to the computer for a moment. “Nothing under abandoned or auctioned.”

  “I need those contents now. Who’d you buy this from?”

  “McAllister. He put it on the Internet and we saw it and came down from Atlanta to start over.”

  “You got his address?”

  “That’s private info.”

  Tommy smiled a disarming smile. “Look, lady. I don’t want trouble. But you got it. If he robbed me, likely he robbed others, and your insurance can’t handle that. Nor can the county or the city who issues you a business license. Nor can the law.”

  María Elena knew he was pressuring her for he certainly couldn’t go to the police.

  “I might add,” said Tommy, “that this person whose privacy you’re protecting has trick-fucked you and me both and got you in trouble. Lawyers cost a lot and insurance companies don’t pay off when there’s fraud.”