“BORN IS THE REAL THING.”
—Elmore Leonard
PRAISE FOR
field of fire
“With Field of Fire, James O. Born comes into his own. This book is chock-full of insider knowledge and experience, but there is so much more than that. There is a story and a character that should put this book as the top of any reader’s stack. Alex Duarte is my kind of cop. I hope he sticks around a long, long time.”
—Michael Connelly
“Field of Fire is a whiz-bang, nonstop thriller, told with the voice of absolute authority. Jim Born never lets the action flag!”
—Tess Gerritsen
“Born…keeps to what he knows best—a solid look at Florida, an insider’s view of police work, and dialogue that crackles with authenticity…while creating an original, energetic story…Moves at a breakneck speed, delivering not only an action-packed thriller but also a novel about corruption, greed, and misplaced loyalties…awash in chases, a high body count, and tension. Born makes these scenes seem genuine, using the heart-stopping accelerated pace to keep the reader drawn into the action. Born…proved with his first novel that he was in the same league as Florida’s other top mystery writers. Field of Fire illustrates how broad his talent is.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“Field of Fire jumps Born into the ranks of the major thriller writers.”
—W.E.B. Griffin
“Born has talent and momentum; don’t be surprised if, soon enough, he has his own [Elmore] Leonard–like breakthrough.”
—Booklist
“[Born] takes readers beyond his procedural expertise…Satisfying edginess.”
—The Tampa Tribune
“Full of violence, dead bodies, and black humor…Born is a working cop who knows firsthand how people on the street and in law enforcement think and act…He also knows how to build suspense. Field of Fire is impossible to put down.”
—Mystery Scene
“BORN IS THE BEST THING TO HAPPEN TO FLORIDA CRIME WRITING SINCE ELMORE LEONARD HIT THE SUNSHINE STATE.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
PRAISE FOR
escape clause
“Born pulls in readers from the first page with riveting action scenes, authentic characters, and a realistic plot…Insider knowledge has helped Born establish himself at the top of the South Florida crime genre.”
—The Miami Herald
“Tough and tight.”
—Palm Beach (FL) Post
“Born proves he owns the Florida police procedural.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“There are more than enough plot twists, tense standoffs, and authentic details to keep things interesting.”
—Booklist
“A strong, colorful cast.”
—Kirkus Reviews
PRAISE FOR
shock wave
“By turns funny and suspenseful…An entertaining combination of a police procedural and a comedic romp that will have readers laughing on the edges of their seats…Step aside, Carl Hiaasen…there’s a new sheriff in town.”
—Chicago Sun-Times
“Put[s] the author firmly in the territory owned by Elmore Leonard and Donald Westlake.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“Die Hard action and some good laughs, too…Readers will be riveted.”
—The Miami Herald
“With its tempo clicking like a timer on an explosive, Shock Wave makes for one compelling read…A blast on every level.”
—January Magazine
“Tough as bulletproof glass…Top thrillwork, with a Jerry Bruckheimer ending, much welcome humor, and the Bureau as Born’s tackling dummy.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“JAMES O. BORN REALLY KNOWS HIS COPS AND THEIR TURF.”
—Joseph Wambaugh
PRAISE FOR
walking money
“Only a cop could know this stuff—only a natural writer could put it down in a novel that’s so smart and suspenseful. Jim Born is a new star.”
—W.E.B. Griffin
“Jim Born is the real thing: a South Florida lawman with an authentic sound that puts you at the scene. Walking Money is a winner.”
—Elmore Leonard
“This is real cop stuff, filled with the kind of characters you find only in Florida. A terrific debut.”
—John Sandford
“Briskly paced…A first-rate hero…Walking Money soars as Born mixes believable characters, a fast-moving story, crisp dialogue, and a nice blend of humor.”
—Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
“As lean, hot, and fast as a Gulf Stream muscle boat.”
—Randy Wayne White
“A riveting, serpentine tale of crooked cops, police politics, and a $1.5 million bag of money juggled from one pair of dishonest hands to another.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A slam-bang story of human greed and betrayal.”
—Vancouver Sun
“He knows Miami: the neighborhoods, the language, the culture of the diverse population. And [he] knows cops—their gallows humor, their politically incorrect statements, and their sometimes gruff manner.”
—The Miami Herald
Also by James O. Born
WALKING MONEY
SHOCK WAVE
ESCAPE CLAUSE
FIELD OF FIRE
BURN ZONE
field of fire
JAMES O. BORN
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
FIELD OF FIRE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2007 by James O. Born.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-0725-3
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Grou
p (USA) Inc.
To Dutch Leonard and Gregg Sutter.
Two guys who were there from the start.
To John Camp for his dead-on advice.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is the first book where I had to do some research. As always, I relied on my smart friends.
Tony Mead, Operations Officer for the Palm Beach County Medical Examiner’s Office.
Sergeant Paul Laska, Martin County Sheriff’s Office (Ret.), Commander of the EOD unit.
Federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives Special Agent Steve Barborini.
Fred Rea of Vero Beach for bringing a generator after Hurricane Wilma hit us. This allowed me to finish the manuscript.
Al Hazen, retired SAC of the Department of Justice Inspector General.
To all the cops I work with who make casual comments that end up in my books.
1
HE LOOKED OVER THE DASH OF THE NEW FORD TAURUS, already littered with PowerBar wrappers, thanks to his partner. The constantly shifting sea of people spread out over the front of the migrant labor camp for the Bailey Brothers main farm. Even with the good Tasco binoculars he’d been using, he had a hard time telling one man from another. His partner probably had the same problem but would never admit it. That’s what you could expect from a guy who was never in the military. He had the “cover your mistakes” mentality.
The big, lumpy man in the passenger seat kept adjusting the binoculars as if they might compensate for the fact that every man between twenty-five and forty in the camp was about five-seven and had dark hair. His partner scanned the large compound on U.S. Highway 27 in extreme western Palm Beach County and said, “Don’t see him, Alex. What’d ya say we pack it in for today?”
Alex Duarte looked out over the labor camp silently, then at the afternoon sun. “Only been here three hours. Let’s give it a few more.”
“A few more hours?” His partner, Chuck Stoddard, turned his wide frame. “No way. I gotta pick up the kids at day care by six. It’ll take an hour just to get back east.”
Duarte shrugged. “I can grab this guy. Go ahead. I’ll drop you back at your car.”
“Alone? Not a chance. The warrant’s for selling guns. We should even have a few more guys with us now.”
Duarte let it slide. He’d found it didn’t pay to argue about something you weren’t going to change. He looked at the warrant again. It was for the arrest of Alberto Salez for violations of criminal statute 18 USC 44§ 922. A federal firearms statute. Duarte knew that it was probably bullshit like a lot of their regulatory cases, but it wasn’t up to him. He followed instructions. The whole thing looked simple to him. This guy broke the law, he and his partner were given the warrant and now they had to find him. An informant had told them Salez stayed in one of the trailers at this shithole. He just wished Stoddard wasn’t whining about going home already. How could you ever get ahead if you weren’t willing to put in a little extra effort? That was the problem with most of the guys he worked with: they didn’t want to get ahead. They were satisfied with just being street agents.
After the long silence, Stoddard said, “Okay, we’ll wait, but my wife is gonna be pissed.” He snatched his cell phone off his hip and started mashing buttons.
Duarte blocked out his partner’s pleadings with his wife over the fate of the kids. Instead of being drawn into the call, he concentrated on the information sheet and small, profile mug shot attached to the warrant. He studied the black-and-white photo, trying to figure out something that might single out Salez. Under the section titled “Scars/Marks/Tattoos,” Duarte noticed a comment: “Lower left ear missing.” It would help up close, but from this distance it didn’t seem to apply.
When Stoddard had put away his phone, Duarte said, “We need to get a lot closer. See?” He held up the sheet and tapped a finger on the ear information.
“How do you figure he lost part of his ear?”
Duarte shrugged.
Stoddard said, “But if we go into the camp and he’s not there, we’ll never get another chance. Once he hears a couple of ATF agents were looking for him, he’ll be on the next bus to California.” Stoddard took another look through the binoculars. “What if you went down, alone, undercover?”
“What’d you mean ‘undercover’? I’d never fit in. They’d pick me out in a second.”
Stoddard hesitated. “I mean, ah, they are your people.”
Duarte was confused. What was his redneck partner talking about?
Stoddard added, “You know what I mean. Spanish.”
Duarte turned to him. “I doubt any of those little people picking fruit are from Spain. And I was born in West Palm Beach. So I don’t know what you mean.”
“I know you’re a…a little taller and dressed nice. I just meant that they’d pick me right out.”
Duarte said, “I can get down there and get a good look without mixing in the crowd. I’ll call if I see anything.” He opened the car door and slid out. He wore a loose shirt over a T-shirt that showed a surfer on a Costa Rican beach. Also under the loose shirt was a Glock model 22, .40 caliber pistol.
Stoddard started to get out too.
“You wait here. We’ll need the car if I see him.”
“What’d you mean? Why’re you going down there if you don’t think you can mix in?”
Duarte shut the door. He had faith his partner would figure out what he was doing. He tromped off through the weeds in the vacant lot next to the car. He could see the labor camp as it sunk away from the built-up highway, almost making it look like it was set up in a valley instead of the Florida swamp.
Duarte crossed the highway a quarter of a mile from the entrance to the camp and then turned back, ducking low into the brush along the perimeter of the flat camp. He felt the stab of a Florida holly bush in his neck as he dropped down to the ground and began to crawl through the dirt. His faded jeans were a lot tighter than fatigues, but he still felt more comfortable doing this kind of activity than he would have trying to mix with the Central American laborers. The heat was bearable. It was May, but no one from the Northeast would consider the temperature “springlike.”
The camp itself had a dusty feel. The pathways and the single road were lime and unpaved. The soil out here in the Glades was black and rich, but the sun dried the top layer in a matter of days, which contributed to the haze. In the distance, a cane field fire added a smell and a soft white dullness to the whole camp. Duarte didn’t mind—in fact, he liked crawling around like this more than his usual duties at the Federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. At least he wasn’t looking at gun store records or typing up a repo
rt.
He traveled down one row of brush then crossed over to another that ran closer to the line of trailers where people seemed to be coming from every few minutes. He found another row of brush turning right and switched onto it like he was on the 1 and 9 subway in New York. No one noticed his tall, thin frame slide through the mix of Florida holly, weeds, ficus and areca palms. After a few minutes, he realized there was a system to the brush and figured out it was used as a wind barrier around certain crops. He found a good intersection and then settled in to look for Alberto Salez. From his hiding place, he could clearly see in three directions. It was comfortable in the shade of the brush. He had sat in worse spots in Bosnia, watching Serbian tanks make their short and usually unsuccessful assaults.
He looked down at the scar that ran along his left forearm and thought about that unfortunate low crawl into barbed wire outside Broka. He didn’t worry about barbed wire here. Of course he hadn’t worried about it in Bosnia either, and now he had a fourteen-inch scar that itched most nights while he lay awake. He reached down and unclipped his Nextel cell phone and carefully turned off all the rings and beeps, placing everything on vibrate. Then he chirped his partner.
In a low whisper, he said, “Chuck, I’m in place, stand by.”
“I’m looking with the binoculars. Where are you?”
Field of Fire Page 1
