by Rod Collins
Booker waited until their waitress set a stack of hotcakes in front of TJ. When she was gone, Booker nodded. “I know that gang. Forty or fifty bikers who hang out at a bar called Day’s End. We haven’t caught them doing anything serious … just some minor traffic violations … and they always pay the tickets without any fuss. But the street tells us they’re into drugs and prostitution. Murder seems a bit out of their league.”
Miranda looked at Booker and shook her head. “You look like you’ve been an officer of the law long enough to know what people will do for money. Crime is a slippery slope, and the bottom isn’t too far down.”
Booker nodded. “Yes, but so far we have no reason to suspect them of hiring out as assassins.”
“You do now. And to make matters worse, they sank BB’s canoe.”
Booker smiled. “That’s definitely an egregious act.” He paused and looked at Miranda. “Good briefing Agent Wright. I thought it might be something like that. So … I have concocted the story that a cousin is coming to visit.”
He studied TJ and said, “Black, about fifty, and close enough to my age. I’ll have to tell Ruthie, my granddaughter, what we’re up to. But she’ll keep it to herself.
“Well, Reverend,” he said suddenly, “when you finish your breakfast, let’s grab your gear and get you settled into my place.” He slid a business card across the table to Miranda. “My personal address is on the back. Guard that information with your life.”
Booker slid out of the booth and waited for TJ to wipe hotcake crumbs from his mouth. “Come on, Reverend. Let’s get moving.”
Miranda managed a “Thank you,” before Booker stomped his way to the front door, TJ trailing behind. Miranda hit the unlock button on the Neon’s key fob, and watched through the window of the restaurant as TJ grabbed his daypack from the back seat and walked to Booker’s police car – a white SUV decked out with gold KFPD shields on the driver and passenger doors. TJ waved in the general direction of the restaurant, then pulled the passenger door shut.
She watched Booker’s vehicle drive down the hill and out of sight. Then she took a deep breath. I suspect Sergeant Booker is not very happy with the FBI. For that matter, neither am I. She sighed and took a last sip of coffee. Well, time to turn this car in and book a plane for Portland.
When Miranda tried to pay for the coffee and TJ’s short stack, the waitress smiled and said, “On us. Any friend of Sergeant Booker is a friend of ours.”
Chapter 52
Butler’s Revenge
SPECIAL AGENT BRANDT worked the keyboard and watched the big monitor as his after-action report worked its way letter-by-letter across the screen. Writing was the least favorite part of his job, but he knew good reports were key to successful prosecutions.
In a neighboring cubicle, he could hear Agent Wilcox pounding the keyboard and muttering under his breath.
Brandt called over the partition, “You know what they say, Leroy. Don’t kill the messenger. Sounds like you’re trying to kill your keyboard instead.”
“Douglas, I don’t want to do this right now. I need to find Al-Alwani and take him down. And I mean right now.”
“Soon as we can,” Brandt agreed. “But Smitty wants this on the director’s desk ASAP.”
“I have an idea, Douglas. Let the director come out here, then we can tell him all about it and skip the paper work.”
Brandt picked up his cell phone on the first ring. “Agent Brandt.”
“And a good agent he is,” Butler said. “How many?”
“How many what?”
“How many women were in the container? I counted eight. Is that right?”
“You were watching.”
Butler laughed and said, “And a damned fine job you did. If there is a book on rescuing damsels in distress, you followed it to the letter. I’m impressed.”
“What do you want, Butler? You can still come in. And we can all pretend you were working undercover.”
“No. I can’t come in, but I am working undercover.” Butler paused … and then, in more serious tone, said, “I need a favor.”
Brandt looked up to see Wilcox leaning over the cubicle partition, trying to listen in. He put the phone on speaker, then said, “What kind of favor?”
“I want you to pull surveillance off Al-Alwani tonight for one hour, like from ten to eleven. Don’t watch. Don’t listen. I’ll give you Al-Alwani and enough evidence to convict him of murder, human trafficking, drug dealing, embezzlement, and sex crimes. You get the credit.”
“Why should we? You have to know we can’t do that.”
“Because I want you to.”
Wilcox started laughing so hard he could barely hear Butler. “I knew you were listening in, Agent Wilcox. I’ll call you back in an hour.” And then the line went dead.
Brandt said, “Wow. Now what?”
Wilcox shook his head. “We can’t let Butler just shut us down.”
Brandt frowned. “We could give our watchers a break, and then you and I watch Al-Alwani. See what Butler has in mind.”
Wilcox nodded. “We could do that. It might get interesting.”
***
Al-Alwani’s cell phone chirped, and he opened a text message. They found the cargo. You’re next. I’d run if I were you. Yoseph.
Adrenalin kicked in, and Al-Alwani’s hands were shaking as he fumbled an answer: Where are you?
Butler smiled at the message, then shut his phone down without answering. His non-descript pickup was parked behind a dark green Mazda Miata convertible half a block up the street from the strong iron gate guarding Al-Alwani’s driveway. Now the wait begins.
The FBI listener couldn’t identify the cause of the noise, but he heard the cell phone bouncing off a wall. And Al-Alwani’s shouts were easy to identify.
Listener one called to his partner, who was getting a second cup of coffee from the little kitchen in the apartment rented by the FBI. “We got something.”
Listener two hurried to his head phones in time to hear Al-Alwani tell his personal servant Ali to get the money and bring the limo around.
Listener One nodded and said, “He’s gonna boogie. I wonder who put a bee in his bonnet?”
“I don’t know, but let’s call this in.”
Ten minutes later a polished black limousine pulled up to Al-Alwani’s security gate. The driver honked the horn, and a few seconds later the gate rolled back. The car pulled through the circle drive and stopped at the front door of the big house. A man wearing a hooded sweatshirt that hid his face, carried two large suitcases to the limo and slid inside. The big car drove back through the gate and turned right, heading in the direction of downtown Portland. Two FBI agents waited a half block down the street for Al-Alwani’s limo to pass their unmarked Dodge Charger, then they pulled out to follow.
Butler just waited where he was. His patience was rewarded when Al-Alwani drove a silver Audi down the driveway and through the gate. He laughed and said, “Thank you, Lord. I hoped he would decoy the watchers with the limo. And it worked. Now then, what do you have up your sleeve, Al-Alwani?”
Butler followed the Audi to the on-ramp leading to I-405. As far as he could tell, Al-Alwani never looked back to see who might be tailing him. Butler’s pickup was three cars back when the silver Audi turned onto I-5 North. A puzzled Butler said, “Where is he going? The airport? Or is he just going to drive to Seattle? I hope not.” He glanced at the gas gauge. The indicator was still saying full. “
When Al-Alwani took the freeway exit to Marine Drive and then turned west, Butler started grinning. “If I can catch him in the terminal, he’s mine.” He touched his daypack, feeling for the butt of the pistol in a side pocket.
The Audi pulled up to the guard shack, and Butler backed into parking spot to watch. He saw Al-Alwani hand what must have been his Transportation Worker Identification Card (TWIC) to the uniformed guard. Then the gate roll back enough to allow the Audi into the terminal.
Butler pulled through the p
arking lot to the gate. He flashed his FBI badge and said, “I’m following that Audi. I’m undercover. A sting operation.”
The guard raised his eyebrows and said, “Who can I call at the FBI to confirm this?
Without hesitation, Butler recited the number for the FBI’s Portland headquarters. “Ask for Agent Brandt or Agent Wilcox.”
Chapter 53
Setting the Trap
IF BUD BLAIR POSSESSED one strength beyond raw courage, it was the ability to envision the setting and the players involved and to lay out a tactical plan. BB’s warning about the bikers set Bud working on a series of quick steps he and his deputies needed to take. He walked the short hall to the booking counter.
“Karen,” he said, “I want all of our deputies here in five minutes. This is a red-flag meeting.”
“What’s going on, Bud?”
“Looks like some bikers are coming to break their buddies out of our jail.”
“Oh, Lord. On it, Bud.”
He used his cell phone to call the Lake County Emergency Services Center. When Nancy Sixkiller answered, he said, “I have a red-flag warning for all local police officers. We have a gang of about fifty bikers headed for Lakeview. I think they intend to break their friends out of our jail. I need all county officers, the city police, and any state police who might be in the area in my office ASAP.”
Next, he called Bob Blankenship, the superintendent of the Warner Creek Correctional facility. Blankenship wasn’t exactly a friend, but he had publicly supported Bud in the last election. When Blankenship’s secretary answered, Bud said, “I need to talk to Superintendent Blankenship.”
“I’m afraid he’s in a meeting right now.”
“I’m sorry, but this won’t wait. I’m calling a red-flag meeting at my office. I need to talk to him NOW.”
Thirty seconds later Blankenship said, “Hello?”
“Bob, this is Bud Blair. I’d like you to take temporary custody of three prisoners. I have a reliable tip that a group of bikers are headed for Lakeview, and I think they’re planning to break their friends out of the county jail. ETA in about fifteen minutes.”
“Not good. I’ll send our van and two correctional officers to pick up your prisoners. And I can send four of my best officers, all trained in crowd control, and all armed.”
“I’d be grateful for the reinforcements.”
“We’re on the way.”
He hung up and then called Nancy back. “I think an emergency bulletin to all local and state police agencies requesting assistance is in order.”
“On it. For good news, a SWAT team from Klamath Falls is in the air. ETA forty-five minutes, but they’ll need a ride from the airport.”
“Good, but I don’t think they’ll get here in time.”
“I hope you’re wrong. And, Bud. Please remember your vest.”
Phone to ear, Bud saw BB’s Lexus slide to a stop in one of the county’s reserved parking slots on “E” street. He was in the hall leading to the booking desk when BB turned the corner.
“Bud,” BB said, “I think you’ve got about ten minutes before they arrive.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Can’t let you tackle these guys without my help.”
Bud shook his head. “And I can’t risk a civilian’s life.”
“I’m not a civilian. I’m a sworn deputy sheriff for Lake County.
“Who swore you in?”
“Mister Sixkiller.”
Bud nodded, smiled, and then held out his hand. BB grinned and shook hands. “Like old times.”
Bud chuckled and said, “No. No, it’s not, but thanks anyway. We’d better get going.”
Chapter 54
The Waterfront
SPECIAL AGENT BRANDT, pen in hand, his own peculiar hen scratches filling a yellow legal pad, listened to the recording of a woman describing her journey from childhood, to housewife, to hooker, to kidnap victim.
“My trade name is Naomi. I love country western music, and I’m a huge fan of Naomi Judd. My given name is Brandy, probably because my drunk of a mother liked her brandy … but first, I want to know how June is doing.”
“June?”
“The little one in the back who was so sick.”
“I don’t know. I’ll try to find out. Right now, I want to hear your story. Who’s your pimp?”
“He’d kill me, or have me killed, if I told you.”
“Not if we put him away, he won’t. I don’t know what the sentence is for human trafficking, but he’ll be an old man before he ever sees the outside world again.”
“He also threatened my mother...”
***
Brandt’s cell phone buzzed. “Special Agent Brandt.”
“This is Dean Williams. I’m a marine security guard at the Port of Portland, Terminal 6. I have a guy here flashing an FBI badge who says he’s undercover. He said to ask you for verification.”
“What’s the name on the badge?”
“Winslow Butler.”
“What’s he doing out there?”
“Well, he tells me he’s following the silver Audi I just let through the gate.”
Brandt’s excitement grew with each breath. “Can you describe the driver of the Audi?”
“Looked like some type of Arab.”
“Okay. I’ll vouch for Butler. Let him through. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”
***
Butler watched Al-Alwani’s silver Audi disappear down an alley between tall stacks of multi-colored shipping containers. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the security guard nod and kill the call.
“Go on through.”
Butler pulled the pickup through the gate and drove about three hundred yards before stopping behind the first row of containers. They were stacked four high, nearly a quarter mile long. He put the pickup in park and walked to the corner of the first metal box for a quick peek down the alley … just as the silver Audi drove into the maw of a red container. Butler counted the rows to make sure he could find the right one, counted again to make sure he had it right, and then waited.
Al-Alwani stepped out, looked in both directions, then pulled the doors shut. Too easy, Butler thought. Then he sent a prayer. Thank you, Lord, for stupid criminals.
Butler walked to the pickup, slid behind the wheel, and nodded to himself. He was half tempted to call Brandt immediately, but his sense of self-preservation kicked in. “No, Winslow,” he said aloud. “Get this right. First deal with Al-Alwani, then get yourself in the clear, and then call Brandt.”
He slipped his pistol from the daypack and laid it on the seat within easy reach, then he slowly eased the pickup down the alley, counting containers as he drove. When the count was right, he stopped, got out, and approached the box cautiously. He turned the sliding latch and pulled both doors open.
