by Jay Giles
Moreno.
He grinned. He could afford to; he had a black automatic pointed at my chest. At this distance, he could close his eyes and kill me. On a strap, over his shoulder, hung a long rifle with a scope.
My heart did a swan dive into my stomach. Once again, time slowed. I watched his hand, my breathing shallow, expecting him to pull the trigger. Instead, he said affably, “Mr. Taggert, how nice of you to find my diamonds for me.”
The surprise of seeing him was fading, replaced by a question. How had the police missed him? “How did you…I mean, where—”
He laughed at my befuddlement. “Did your friend Ban never tell you this house has a safe room?”
Not even a whisper.
“It’s off the master bedroom. Quite a large space actually. There’s a bed, small bathroom, refrigerator, sink. I enjoyed a nice glass of Merlot while I watched you search. A little too chilled, but passable.”
So that’s where the surveillance monitors were. Made sense. What didn’t make sense was why Heather hadn’t hidden the diamonds in the safe room. What the heck. I asked him that.
“Women. You tell them to do something—and, yes, I told her to put the diamonds in the safe room—and they do something else. Maybe they don’t trust you. Maybe they think they are smarter. Maybe they do it to spite you. Who knows? I—” He emphasized the I. “—I thought it was a good place to hide them or I wouldn’t have given them to her. Now?” He smiled mysteriously. “I will hide them and she will have to look. Serves her right.” He wiggled the gun at me. “Enough chit chat. Give them to me.”
“In a minute.” I was in no rush. The longer I stalled the more chance the MBI guy would arrive. “There’s something I want to know first. Why’d Pico kill Su and leave me alive?”
Moreno frowned. “Pico wasn’t supposed to kill anybody,” he said tersely. “Those two never got along. I think he saw an opportunity to get rid of her and took it. Satisfied?”
He held out his hand. “The diamonds.”
I bent over, placed the pizza box on the floor, reluctantly separated the diamond box from the pile, straightened up and handed it to him. He took it, waved the gun at the stairs.
“What now?”
“You my friend are going on a trip. Your body, with a few diamonds on it, will be found in another city. The police will assume you found the diamonds and decided to take them for yourself. You become the guilty one. The police stop looking. Case closed.”
He paused as we came to the stairs. He had the diamonds tucked under his left arm. I was to his right, the gun in his right hand about six inches from my side. “Cheer up, Mr. Taggert. You and your girlfriend will shortly be reunited in death.” He laughed, poked me in the ribs with the gun barrel. “Down the stairs.”
I started down. He shouldn’t have reminded me of Su. It made me think of what she’d done on the Venetian, kicking Flowered Shorts in the side of the knee.
Maybe I could pull that off, too. I became acutely aware of every factor—my position, his position, the curve of the staircase, number of stairs left—as I tried to line up my best shot.
Moreno was a step behind me. I slowed, trying to get him on the same step with me.
He slowed, too. “Keep moving.”
I went down two more steps. Slowed abruptly.
He didn’t slow as quickly. “What are you—”
I went for it. Kicked. Hard as I could with my left foot.
Missed.
Chapter 25
I didn’t hit his knee. In fact, I missed his leg entirely. What I did do, kicking my leg out in front of him like that, was trip him. As he went airborne, the diamond box slipped out from under his arm, he dropped the gun and—like a star NFL wide receiver—stretched out, caught the box with both hands, hugged it to his chest. There was an oomph as he hit the stairs and the breath went out of him, followed by a bunch of clangs, bangs, and thumps as his body, still with that long rifle slung around his shoulder, tumbled down the stairs to the floor below.
I didn’t fare much better. My kick put me off balance, and I tumbled down after him. I tried protecting my head with my arms as I went, but by the time I reached the bottom, I’d been bounced hard.
Sprawled out on the floor, gathering my wits, I heard movement. Moreno.
The handgun? Where was the gun?
I got to my knees, my gaze frantically searching the floor. I spotted the handgun, the same time Moreno did, resting against the far wall.
He looked at me. I looked at him. It was a race. Moreno was closer. Eight feet to my twenty.
I was on my feet, running to scoop-up the gun.
Moreno, much closer than I was, didn’t bother getting up. He crawled furiously.
I had him beat until I slipped on a loose diamond and landed on my hip with a jarring thud. No time to shake it off, I was up, moving, looking over to judge how much that fall had cost me.
He’d slowed when I’d fallen. What an idiot.
Two quick steps and the gun was in my hand, pointed at him. “Get back. I’ll shoot.”
He stood, faced me, his face menacing. “You don’t know how to shoot,” he taunted. “You aren’t even holding that gun right. Pull the trigger and you won’t come close to hitting me.” He reached down his right leg, pulled up his pant leg, took a knife from a sheath, and waved it in my direction. Thing had a big, nasty-looking serrated blade.
He advanced toward me. I backed away. My foot found another diamond that had spilled from the box. I almost slipped.
He grinned. “What is it they say about one false step, Mr. Taggert?” He started slowly advancing toward me.
I kept backing away, moving toward the center of the hall, trying not to back myself into a corner. Part of my hesitation with the gun was that I didn’t know how many rounds it held. Part of it was I didn’t want to kill him; I just wanted to stop him and wasn’t sure how to do that.
Seems he didn’t feel the same. “Killing you will give me joy,” he told me, face grim. “I’m going to do it slowly, maybe use this knife to skin you. They say the pain is staggering. Maybe first, I’ll cut out your eyes and tongue. How ‘bout that, Mr. Taggert?”
He was trying to get into my head and he’d succeeded. I was no longer thinking about how I was going to shoot him. I was thinking about what he was going to do to me. I had to change that. “I had a guy earlier who thought he was going to slit my throat,” I told him. “Didn’t happen. I beat him and I’ll beat you.”
“How, by dancing around? Float like a butterfly and sting like a bee? Is that you, Mr. Taggert?”
He had a point. I was staying far enough away he couldn’t get me with that knife. It was also far enough away that if I shot him I probably wouldn’t hit him where I needed to.
Paying too much attention to him, my foot slipped on diamonds, again. I went down awkwardly on my rear. Moreno sensing victory, pounced, bringing that knife down in a big roundhouse swing.
He was so close; I could touch him.
I pressed the gun to his kneecap and pulled the trigger.
He collapsed with a deafening scream, both hands grabbing his ruined knee. He hadn’t let go of the knife, though. He still held it as he rocked back and forth, eyes narrow slits, brow furrowed in pain. “I’m still going to kill you, Taggert.” The hand with the knife came away from his knee. I took his threat seriously.
I shot him in the other kneecap.
His eyes rolled back in his head, and he was out.
I watched his breathing to make sure he was alive, saw he was, and made two phone calls—one for an ambulance, the other to Mackay to let him know about Moreno.
I had all the diamonds picked up and the box neatly tucked under my arm when the MBI guy finally arrived.
His gaze went from Moreno, motionless on the floor, to me. “They called me on my way here,” he said incredulously. “You? You got the guy who killed four of Sarasota’s SWAT team?”
I grinned.
Epilogue
Rodr
igo Moreno was arraigned in Sarasota on 26 counts of first-degree murder and a slew of other charges too numerous to mention. From his wheelchair, he entered a plea of not guilty. His attorney made a motion for bail saying Moreno wasn’t a flight risk as he could no longer walk or even stand without pain. Judge didn’t buy it and Moreno was remanded back to jail. I got that news from Mackay who told me Homeland Security and several foreign governments might also bring charges against him. There was no doubt he’d spend the rest of his life behind bars.
But the most intriguing news from Mackay was the missing piece of the puzzle. For the life of me, I could never figure out the connection between Moreno and Ban Sloane. How had these two men from very different worlds come to know each other?
What Mackay discovered was that Nina Cabrera was Moreno’s half-sister. She was the one who saw the opportunity to bring the diamonds to the states aboard the Venetian. She was the one who introduced Sloane to Moreno. She was the one who, as her relationship with her husband soured, told Heather the two woman would be better off without their husbands and she could arrange to have them eliminated.
That shocked me. I’d always liked Nina. I never thought her heart could be that dark. But she was the missing puzzle piece. When you knew her role, it all fell into place.
The authorities arrested her in Tampa trying to board a cruise ship whose first port was the Mexican Rivera Maya, where she would have disembarked and disappeared.
Danny White should have gotten the Weasel Of The Year Award. We’d agreed to a $20-million fee for the return of the diamonds. However, when I contacted him to arrange the exchange, he tried to renege on our contract. First, it was The people at corporate had a change of heart and instructed him to re-negotiate. Then it was You have to drop the charges against Mario. When I stood firm to those and other stalls, my condo was broken into and searched for the diamonds. Unfortunately for Danny and his band of crooks, I’d had the good sense to put them in a safety deposit box at Inland Bank and Trust.
After two months of finagling, White finally gave up and wired the $20-million. Not to me. I’d set up a 501(c)(3) charitable foundation to benefit the families of the victims of the assault on the police building and The Castle. That money was going to pay off mortgages, cover medical expenses, and send kids to college. I’d made Mackay the trustee; knowing he’d make sure people were cared for in the right ways.
Mario Genoa was indicted by a Grand Jury for attempted murder. In a plea bargain, he agreed to assault with a deadly weapon and received a slap-on-the-wrist prison sentence. Still, the thought of him as some prisoner’s bitch almost made up for the scars on my neck.
Heather Sloane was picked up at JFK in New York trying to board an Air France flight to Paris. Her new face—still with visible scars from the surgery—didn’t match the face in her passport photo. After she was returned to Orlando, she hired three heavy-hitter attorneys who crafted the obvious defense strategy: Heather was the innocent victim of a nefarious scheme by her late husband. Fearing for her life from the people who killed her husband, she felt the only way to protect herself was to change her appearance and hide. As an attorney, it was a narrative I knew would play well with a jury. These guys had been around a big case or two. They were going to drag this out, generate a bunch of publicity, run-up exorbitant fees, and Heather would walk.
Mimi Top Dollar was horrified by what happened to her pristine listing. One report had her becoming physically ill as she toured the carnage. She blamed me, of course, for every nick and scratch and threatened a multi-million-dollar lawsuit that never materialized thanks to an improbable string of events.
A local news affiliate filmed a segment—Shootout At The Castle—that dramatized the firefight and included Mimi extolling The Castle’s style and charm. One of the networks picked up the segment and it ran nationally on the six and eleven o’clock news. An entrepreneur in South America saw the segment, flew to the States, liked the house—even damaged—and paid the asking price of $50-million. In cash. That’s right, cash money. You might say he turned The Castle into The Laundry. I thought for sure the authorities would step in. They didn’t. The irony of the sale was Mimi had me to thank for finding her buyer.
After acquiring the house, the South American entrepreneur expressed interest in investing to finish San Marco Square. Suddenly, he and Fleagle were BFFs. In a way it was Sloane and Cabrera all over again. Some of the love came my way, too. Fleagle surprised me by offering a lump-sum settlement of $50-thousand dollars for my trip expenses. I jumped on it. He also relinquished any claim to the Venetian, clearing the way for my maritime salvage claim.
Since Su had no living relatives, I had her ashes buried next to my dad’s. After the interment, I spent an hour talking to the two graves, introducing them to each other. My dad, before Alzheimer’s, would have liked Su. Somehow, I knew she’d like Bill, too.
LeeAnn became a part-time employee, splitting her time between the law office and Anton’s salon. To make sure there was no friction in the relationship, LeeAnn insisted I meet Anton. He invited me to the salon for a haircut. And, jeez louise, was she ever right. Best haircut I’d ever had.
Once I had clear ownership of the Venetian, I took her to a boatyard in Tampa and used Fleagle’s 50K for new engines, navigation gear, and bridge windows. Earlier, I’d called Pena at his boat works and asked if he’d be interested in buying her. He agreed to a price of $920,000. I told him I’d deliver her within a month.
Yep, I had this crazy idea of one last trip on the Venetian.
Amazingly, on that trip, I experienced no engine problems, ran into no pirates or paramilitary thugs, and thoroughly enjoyed my time on the water. When I reached Rio, I called Chris Wullenweber and arranged for him to do the sale paperwork and go to the boat yard with me for the exchange.
It went smoothly enough. Pena was as gracious as ever, although he cried when he heard what had happened to Ollie, Nestor, and Su.
As we were leaving, Wullenweber said, “You know, Mr. T., you’re like a whole new person since the last time we were together.”
I thought back to the MBI guy who’d been surprised I took down Moreno.
“You’re more confident,” he continued, “more on top of your game. Hey, wanna hang out, get some lunch, I know a place—”
“Love to, Chris, but I’ve got something else I’ve got to do.”
Ipanema was calling me. I wanted to walk the beach, watch the girls go by.
The End.
OTHER BOOKS FROM REAGENT PRESS
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About the Author: Robert Stanek has written over 50 books. His books are sold all over the world and have been translated into many languages. His distinguished accomplishments during the Gulf War earned him nine medals, including our nation’s highest flying honor, the Distinguished Flying Cross.
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