Martyr's Inferno

by Scott Gamboe

The car was there, parked right where it was supposed to be. After securing his luggage, he circled the airport and returned to the main terminal building. He found a darkened area and parked his vehicle. From there, it was only a short walk to the airport's primary dumpster. After a pause to ensure he was alone, he sprinted from cover.

  With a single heave, he pulled himself into the dumpster. He ignored the sickening stench of rotten food, clawing his way to the rear where the chute emptied trash from inside the building. Beneath several garbage bags, he located both briefcases. A brief inspection told him the cargo inside them appeared to be intact. He clambered over the heaping refuse and back out onto the street.

  He returned to his car, where he disposed of his soiled clothing. Back behind the wheel once more, he drove out of the airport to his hotel.

  #

  Jim peered through a pair of binoculars as a white van backed up to the warehouse loading dock. The meticulously drawn mural on the side showed the van to be the property of a farmer's market. Jim figured it was no more accurate than the real estate signs that had decorated their previous car. The grounds were well-kept. Even the brick wall of the warehouse appeared to have been scrubbed clean. He had to close his eyes momentarily, blinking back the pain from his new head injury. His forehead was swollen, and there was a small amount of blood. He had no time to tend it. He rubbed his eyes and directed the binoculars at the van once more.

  The driver stood by the side of the vehicle. Two men in denim coveralls stopped at the back of the van, where they opened a small carry-on suitcase. One of them nodded to another man, who stood against the building holding a duffel bag. He handed the duffel to the driver of the van. The driver placed it on his seat. He opened it far enough to see inside, then closed it. The driver got behind the wheel while the cargo was offloaded. With the transaction finished, the van rumbled to life and rolled away from the warehouse. Tony was nowhere to be scene.

  Tommy started their own car, a small Ford coupe they had exchanged for the Buick. He followed the van at a discreet distance. The driver of the van was in no hurry. The van stayed in one lane, even when traffic slowed well below the posted speed limit. He parked along the curb at a strip mall and walked about a half-block to a bank. Tommy parked several spots behind him. He looked to Rich for guidance, but Rich only shrugged.

  "You're the cop, Hunter. This is why you came along. What do we do now?"

  Jim rubbed the tender knot in the center of his forehead. "Okay, let's do this. I'll follow him into the bank to see what I can learn. You guys wait out here and follow him when he leaves. Maybe, if we're lucky, he'll lead you to Tony."

  "Don't do anything stupid," Rich warned him. "We can't risk linking all this business to my father. Besides, Krista would be really pissed at me if I let you get caught. I think she likes you."

  Jim opened his door and stepped outside. "I've got everything I need. I'll see you guys back at Krista's place."

  "Here." Rich handed him a card. "She'll be in town tonight at a different address."

  Jim nodded and waved as he slipped the card into his pocket. He took a moment to make sure the adhesive on his beard was holding, then strolled directly to the bank. He passed inside through the revolving doors. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimmer light. Just ahead of him, his quarry up to a window to speak to a teller. Jim stepped to the rear of the line. The courier spoke in low tones, so Jim couldn't hear what was said. He did hear something about a deposit.

  The line moved edged forward. Jim allowed three customers behind him to move ahead to allow time for the transaction to be completed. Finally, the man took a receipt from the teller. He walked briskly to the exit, his head down. Jim elbowed past a disgruntled customer, ignoring his protest. He approached the teller. He knew it was a calculated gamble, but he pulled his badge from his pocket and showed it to the teller.

  "Bloomington Police. I need everything you have on the last transaction."

  "What's wrong?"

  "We think he's part of a money laundering scheme. I need to trace his transaction back to the source."

  The teller frowned and shook her head. She stared at the unsightly welt on Jim's forehead. "I don't know . . . I'll need to get permission."

  "I don't have time for that! I need to get back outside and follow him. Please, just give me a printout!"

  Her hand hovered over the phone. She slumped her shoulders and pressed a key on the computer. A printer hummed as it typed out a receipt, which she handed across the counter. Jim thanked her and dashed out of the bank. He gave a theatrical pause at the door as if to be certain his target would not see him. He slipped out the door and into the afternoon sun, where he melted into the pedestrian traffic.

  #

  The taxi pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex. Jim slipped the driver a twenty dollar bill and told him to keep the change. He crossed the lawn to the secure entrance. His finger slid along the names in the directory as if looking for someone in particular. When he was certain the taxi was out of sight, he walked away. His true destination was about a mile further east.

  In took him ten minutes to reach Krista's apartment. He was saved the hassle of buzzing her apartment when she emerged from the carport, groceries in hand.

  She stared at his head. "Now what did you do?"

  He smiled and shrugged. "Just a minor scuffle. And maybe a brief gun battle." He took some of the groceries from her as she continued to berate him about the new injury. They climbed the steps to the third floor.

  Inside the apartment, she insisted on hearing everything that had happened. While she tended to Jim's forehead, he recapped the day's events, from the early failures with the street dealers, to the tip leading into the alley where they had the gun battle. He explained that while he had gathered information inside the bank, Rich had followed the courier to see if he would return to Tony.

  "What did you find at the bank?"

  "I managed to get a printout of the transaction." Jim paused while he removed the receipt from his pocket. "Here it is. He deposited just under five thousand dollars into a business checking account."

  "Was that all he had?"

  "Not even close. He probably made several stops along the way and deposited the rest of the money into other accounts."

  "Why go through all that trouble?"

  Jim leaned his throbbing head against the couch. "Money laundering laws. If he deposited more than five thousand dollars into one account, the feds might get involved and audit the account. If they keep the amounts down, they can fly under the radar."

  "Does it give the name of the business?"

  He nodded. "Sunny Skies Condominiums. I looked them up, but the address they give is a post office box. I guess nothing is going to be easy."

  "Don't be so certain." She handed him an icepack and left the room. When she returned, she carried her laptop computer. Her nimble fingers danced across the miniature keyboard. He held the icepack to his head, reveling in the cooling sensation and feeling his headache fade away.

  "Sorry, James, this may take me a while. Sunny Skies is owned by a trust fund called All American Investments. I may have to backtrack through a few different companies before we learn anything concrete."

  He raised one eyebrow. "Did they teach computer hacking at the nursing school you attended?"

  She flashed him a dazzling smile. "As I said, I used to be a nurse. I've been working with computers for a few years."

  Jim rose to his feet and went to the kitchen to get a beer from the fridge. He wandered about the apartment, looking into the various rooms and checking the outside views. A brown sedan that was parked away from the streetlights caught his eye. He went to the corner bedroom, where the lights were still out, and leaned closer to the window.

  Although the area where the car was parked was poorly lit, he could tell someone was in the front seat. Jim watched for several minutes, but the man made no move to either leave or approach.

  He returned to th
e living room. "Would Rich or your father set anyone around this apartment to protect us?"

  "They didn't mention anything about it, why?"

  "Because there is someone in a car down there, watching this building. I want to know who it is."

  "How are you going to do that?"

  "Do you have any weapons?"

  She shook her head. "Just a BB pistol, although I guess it looks real enough."

  "It'll have to work."

  "What do you want me to do?"

  "Just be visible up here. Do something to keep his attention, so he thinks we're both still inside."

  Krista dug through her bedroom closet and emerged with a black plastic BB pistol. Jim believed it could pass for the real thing, at least in the dark. She bit her lip as she handed him the faux weapon. Jim reached out and took the pistol from her. He gave her a reassuring smile.

  "I'll be careful."

  With the pistol tucked safely beneath his shirt, Jim slipped out the rear door of the apartment building. He dashed for the cover of the nearby tree line. He followed it in a circuitous route around the complex. It took fifteen minutes of careful maneuvering to put himself in a position where he could see the car. He paused to scan the bushes, buildings, and cars in the area for signs of another sentry. His careful reconnoiter revealed no one else in the area.

  On cat's feet, he slipped closer to the car. He dodged from one obstruction to another, always keeping something between him and his target. He drew close enough to see that the window was down. Music drifted softly out the window. The man in the car brought a pair of binoculars to his face and pointed them at Krista's apartment. Jim followed the man's gaze to her bedroom, where she was slowly, almost melodramatically, removing her shirt. The staged performance had served its purpose, however. The man in the car was fixated on Krista.

  Jim slipped up to the passenger side of the car. He yanked the rear door open and threw himself inside, the BB gun aimed at the man's head. His hands came up in surrender, eyes wide at Jim's startling appearance.

  "Keep your hands where I can see them. Now, who are you?"

  "Agent Nick Halliton, FBI. I have identification in my jacket pocket, if you'll let me get it."

  Jim nodded. A feeling of dread poured over him. He was not like Tony. If an FBI agent had inconvenienced Tony, he would not hesitate to kill him. But there was no way Jim would do that. He waited in stoic silence while Nick carefully reached into his jacket with only his thumb and index finger. Just as slowly, he withdrew a flat black wallet. He unfolded the wallet to reveal papers identifying him as Special Agent Nicholas Halliton of the FBI. Jim read the ID carefully. The paperwork was authentic.

  "I assume you are Jim Hunter." Jim gave a curt nod. "You're wanted, Hunter. I'd say every law enforcement officer within three counties of here is anxious to arrest you. All but two, that is. Matt James would like to kill you. And, believe it or not, I want to help you."

  Jim drew in a sharp breath at Matt's name. "You expect me to believe that?"

  "I have something that may help convince you. It's in the glove compartment." Without waiting for Jim's approval, Nick reached across the car and opened the glove compartment. He retrieved a black plastic box, which he handed to Jim. Jim knew what the box was before he opened it. The box was a gun case, with the brand symbol for the Glock corporation emblazoned on the cover.

  "Go ahead, open it. It's a Glock 22, and there are three loaded magazines with it. I think you could put it to better use than that BB pistol."

  Jim rolled his eyes as he tossed the BB gun on the seat. He opened the case and inspected the firearm it enclosed. It was a brand new, unfired weapon. Each of the magazines held fifteen rounds. He slipped it into his waistband, then climbed into the front seat, leaving the door open and one foot outside.

  "How did you find me?"

  "I staked out the same drug deal. I followed you, first to the bank, then here."

  "So why are you helping me? Everyone thinks I'm a dirty cop, a drug dealer, and a killer."

  "Against the orders of my Special Agent in Charge, I kept surveillance on Tony Marcel. I know he's been dealing drugs and laundering money."

  "Why doesn't the SAC want you to investigate him?"

  Nick started the car and turned down the volume on his radio. "Office politics. I'm assigned to the Peoria satellite office. We're under strength, due to budget cuts. There are too many active cases right now, so she doesn't want me to take on anything else. What you have to keep in mind is that to you, Tony Marcel is the real deal. But to the FBI, he's a minor annoyance. Yes, he traffics in narcotics. Yes, he has murdered people. But we have bigger fish to fry. They don't want me to get involved. So I only tail him while I'm not on duty."

  "And in the course of your investigation, you found something to convince you I'm innocent?"

  Nick was silent for several long moments, staring at the dashboard. "A couple of weeks ago, I'd planned to follow Tony. Some things at home gave me a late start. It was difficult for me to track him down, but I finally learned where he had gone: a small lake north of Bloomington." His eyes slowly rose to meet Jim's. "I drove out there, hid my car, and snuck up on foot. I arrived just in time to watch them shoot you in the back of the head.

  "I didn't know who you were, of course. After they left, a man and a woman got to you before I did. I found out later that you were the one who was shot. But I also managed to identify your shooter."

  Jim raised his hands, palm up. "Matt James. So, what are you planning to do about it?"

  "For now, nothing. This investigation isn't as simple as you think. Yes, we have a crooked cop working with a very aggressive, up-and-coming mob boss. They've established a drug trafficking network in Bloomington. Tony's killing off his competition. Yesterday, he killed two members of the Gangster Disciples, with your gun. The cops have matched the bullets to your weapon. They think you're responsible."

  "And you're just going to let him walk away? I mean, what the hell, it's not your career. It's not your ass that will end up in prison when this is over."

  "This goes much deeper than you or Tony Marcel. There are lives at risk as long as he remains free, I'll grant you. But I have to look at the bigger picture. I believe there are many more lives at stake. Maybe thousands. Or tens of thousands."

  "What're you talking about?"

  "Tony has a major shipment due in a few days, maybe a week."

  Jim decided to pretend he knew more than he really did. Maybe Halliton would reveal something. "Yes, I know. The whole 'Martyr's Inferno' business. I've put a lot of time into it, but my information is vague. If I can find out when and where Tony will receive the shipment, I'll be there. My best hope for redemption is to catch Matt and Tony together when the load of heroin arrives."

  Nick shook his head. "I don't think it's going to be heroin. Or any drug, for that matter. I think it'll be weapons. And based upon who his contacts are, I believe he intends to hand them over to sleeper agents who are working for a group of terrorists, possibly al-Qaeda. Here, in America. It's even making the Israelis nervous. They've got the Mossad on the case."

  Jim delicately ran the tips of his fingers over the swollen knot on his forehead. "I think you'd better come upstairs."

  #

  "This is Krista. Krista Marcel."

  Nick froze in the act of shaking her hand. "Marcel?"

  "Yeah. Don't worry. She's Tony's sister, but she's working against him. She and her older brother Richard are the ones who saved me at the lake. Krista, this is Nick Halliton of the FBI."

  Krista raised one eyebrow as she looked back and forth between Nick and Jim. "Nice to meet you. James, why did you bring him here?"

  Jim explained the conversation they had in the car. "Did you find anything on those companies?"

  "Yeah, actually I did. Tony owns several dummy corporations, all established through various banks in several different towns. He . . . wait. Is this off the record?"

  Nick gave a disarming smile. "Sco
ut's honor. Actually, I'm not officially here, so say what you want. I won't hold you accountable. I take it you managed to skirt a few laws of cyberspace to gain some information about his businesses."

  "Look for yourself."

  Jim knelt beside Krista, suddenly aware of her perfume. She gave him a slight smile, then winked and looked away. He cleared his throat and focused on the computer screen.

  Krista tapped a slender finger against the computer screen. "There are fourteen companies on the list, and they all transferred money to an account owned by a trust fund called Twin Cities Trust. Although the trust fund's bank is based in Curaçao, they have offices on the Dutch side of the island of Saint Martin and in Playa del Carmen, Mexico. There is quite a paper trail. Tony has obviously gone through a bit of trouble to conceal where his money was going."

  Jim leaned closer. "Like I said before, these small deposits kept him off the IRS's radar. With the kind of money he's moving, he needs multiple accounts in order to handle the volume. But of course, he wants to consolidate his money, preferably out of the jurisdiction of the United States."

  "Enter Twin Cities Trust," said Nick. "Curaçao is the Caribbean capital of money laundering, but it also allows legitimate investors to skirt their own local tax laws. It's mainly used by wealthy Americans who want to avoid paying the inheritance tax. Because of that, the island is home to a number of large trust fund bank accounts. But in this particular case, should Tony's operation ever be compromised, his money would be safe, out from under the threat of government seizure. And by basing his offices in other countries, he has made his operation that much more difficult to track."

  Krista pressed a few keys, and her printer hummed to life. She handed the papers to Jim. After a moment's hesitation, she printed another copy for Nick. The three sat silently for several minutes to read what she had found.

  "Well, Nick, what are you going to do now?" Jim asked. "Does this help your case?"

  Nick held up one hand, palm down, and rocked it side to side. "A little, but not enough. I need to see all the information they have in the Saint Martin office, but that's a little difficult. I can't just up and leave the country. I still have a job to do, not to mention how hard it would be to explain to my wife why I have to travel to the Caribbean without her."