Field of Fire

by James O. Born

  Garretti hit the gas in the Honda and closed on Salez, who swung the Toyota to the left away from him. Then Salez sped up and intentionally clipped the front of a minivan.

  As the van started to swerve, then sway, Garretti could see there were kids in the van. He slowed the Honda to give the driver of the van a chance to get the vehicle under control, but it was too late. He watched as it veered hard, then flipped and tumbled right in front of him. He hit the brakes hard, trying to avoid smashing the vehicle, where he could see a little girl being tossed around on the inside. The van continued to tumble until a truck in the far right lane struck it and sent it down the sloping grassy hill off the highway.

  Garretti yanked on the wheel of the Honda and brought it to a stop on the shoulder of the road within a hundred feet of the wrecked van. He was out of the Honda and down the embankment before he even thought of Salez. He glanced over his shoulder to see his former Toyota disappear onto an overpass. Garretti turned again, and was still the first person to the crumpled van. He fell to his knees next to the upside-down van.

  He couldn’t help but breathe a big sigh of relief when he saw the little girl, a younger boy and the mother all crying but apparently not seriously harmed.

  He forced open the damaged passenger’s door. “It’ll be all right. Are you hurt?” he said in a loud voice, like he’d been trained.

  The sobbing woman said, “I don’t think so.”

  “Then just relax and I’ll get you out.” He held his hand out for the little girl with blond hair. Even as she took it, he thought about how to get the dead woman in the Honda out of the area. Salez had really pissed him off now.

  11

  ALEX DUARTE SAT BY THE WINDOW OF THE DELTA DC-10 on its flight from the West Palm Beach International Airport to Reagan National in Washington, D.C. He had barely made the flight due to an accident on the interstate that had tied up traffic for miles. He had driven past it, and could see a Honda Element to one side but nothing else. Now, sitting next to him, the usually talkative Caren Larson sprawled in the seat, her mouth open and snoring. He thought it might be the result of a small orange pill she had taken just before they boarded the plane. He hadn’t asked her what the pill was. It was none of his business. He liked to fly. During his days in the service, he had flown across the Atlantic six times. In a plane, you had to relax. There weren’t a lot of options. He knew there was a chance they might fly on to Seattle to the site of the first bombing, which looked related. Now he reviewed report after report of the Virginia bombing, which occurred near Fredericksburg about a month ago. The tram that was used to shuttle workers between an amusement park and an offsite employee parking lot had been destroyed by a pack of C-4 placed under the door to the eight-seat vehicle. The blast had shredded the passenger compartment and instantly killed not only the three workers but the driver as well. It would be a while before the ATF lab could say if it was the same batch of C-4 used in the migrant camp blast. The markers put in by the manufacturers might open up a whole new line of investigation. So far all he knew was that the C-4 used in the Seattle blast was not from the same manufacturer as the C-4 used in the Virginia blast. The manufacturers were different, but both had large contracts with the military.

  Duarte studied three photographs, which Caren had provided. The crime scene photos showed human-sized hunks of flesh that Duarte knew had been people in the open interior of the charred tram. The photos showed the carnage, but it didn’t bother him. He had seen worse. Hell, he had caused worse. The photos reminded him of Bosnia, and, as always, that brought up memories of his mistake in using too much explosive to keep three Serb tanks from crossing the Drina River on the border of Serbia and Bosnia.

  Duarte blinked a couple of times, and then thought of Hector Tannza’s smiling face in a photo he had seen at Maria’s trailer. He hoped the young woman would recover from the loss of her son but doubted any sane person ever completely recovered from something like that. Family was family. He thought about all that young Hector would miss out on in life.

  Caren stirred next to him as her head lolled to the side, striking his shoulder.

  The thick file of reports on the Fredericksburg bombing included profiles on the three dead workers. No criminal history, nothing to point to being a victim of violence. They weren’t involved in drugs, didn’t live in a high-crime area and didn’t have occupations that put them in conflict with people. That made the chances of them dying violently remote. A small labor union had just organized in the park, and two of the three dead workers had helped organize it. According to the interviews with others, the unionization had not caused any obvious problem and no protests. Most of the workers joined, but not all. It seemed like a lot of work to scare a small union. Duarte considered the other available info as they started their descent into northern Virginia airspace. This was a new type of investigation for him. If it didn’t directly involve a gun or some bush-league explosive device, his experience was limited. He hated to admit that this investigation caused some level of excitement in him. He thought of his potential for advancement, but knew that the look on Maria Tannza’s pretty face during his brief meeting also motivated him. Her son, Hector, deserved the effort. Maybe, somewhere in his heart, he thought that by solving this case and bringing the bomber in he might find a way to fall asleep at night and not question his actions in the past.

  Mike Garretti pushed the little Honda Element up past eighty-five miles an hour as soon as he crossed the border from Georgia to South Carolina. He knew where that heartless, brainless son of a bitch was heading. An imbecile would have figured it out.

  He said out loud, “He doesn’t know about his buddy in Virginia and he’s gonna warn him.” He looked over at the woman who occupied the Element when he had taken it. At first, he hadn’t known where to dump her. Then he worried about the cops looking for the car if they found the body. No one had noticed her at the accident scene near the West Palm Beach airport. He had to scoot before others started calling him a hero, like the lady he had rescued. He drove north on I-95, stopped to make a few phone calls, got some info he might be able to use and kept heading north on the highway. Somewhere around Jacksonville, after he had grown accustomed to her attractive, if graying, face, he realized she was pretty good company. Like a lot of guys in his position, he had gone without female contact many times for long periods. This was nice, even if she wasn’t as responsive as he’d like her to be. That fucker Salez had killed her, and he bet the asshole had just met her. He probably didn’t know a thing about her.

  “I’ll find him at the park. You can bet on it.” He pushed the whining engine a little harder, and didn’t worry that she didn’t answer him.

  As he made his way through Reagan National, he realized he was following Caren in the same way she had followed him in Florida. She had a clear confidence, as she navigated the crowd to baggage claim, talking over her shoulder like he was a personal assistant.

  “First thing in the morning, we’ll stop by the office on Pennsylvania Avenue and talk to my boss.”

  “Why do I need to talk to your boss? Can’t you brief him while I head to the site of the bombing and get started on interviewing witnesses?”

  “You don’t want to meet a deputy attorney general of the United States?”

  He shrugged. He didn’t want to meet the actual attorney general, if he didn’t have to.

  “You’d like him. He has a similar background.”

  “He was in the service?”

  She hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

  “He was a cop?”

  “No.”

  “What is similar about our background?”

  “He’s a first generation Latin American too.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I thought it would interest you.”

  The only things that interested him now were a shower, food—even if it wasn’t his ma’s cooking—and a chance to lie flat and pretend he would fall into a deep sleep.

  Caren’
s silence indicated he’d make his goal.

  He rolled in the crisp bed sheets of room 1701 of a Marriott on the outskirts of Washington. Caren had dropped him off on the way from the airport and said she’d pick him up at eight sharp. That gave him three hours to kill until she arrived. He stretched his long legs in the bed, then rolled onto the carpet and stretched tall, feeling his back crack as he did. With a steady, deep breath, he worked through some more stretches, and held a few balance poses, until a light sheen of perspiration formed across his body. His loose, army-issue shorts gave him plenty of room to move as he settled into a near split. After a few minutes of easy punches and kicks, he dropped for a quick thirty push-ups, then crunches. Then he picked up the intensity. Hard punches and snapping kicks until, nearly an hour later, he felt as if he’d practiced enough for the day. He switched on the TV and caught the opening of the Today show, as he finished with a twenty-minute set of stretching. A commercial for a new James Bond film came on and he smiled. He liked the fact that Bond could fight with perfect martial technique and shoot his PPK with super accuracy and never had to practice either. Duarte practiced, and then analyzed his practice, until he knew he could do his best when he had to fight or shoot, even though he preferred not to use a handgun. It was not an easy lifestyle.

  At ten minutes to eight, he was in front of the hotel waiting for Caren. Under his light windbreaker, he had his Glock in a leather hip holster. He had an odd feeling about this case he couldn’t pinpoint. He often doubted his instincts because he had proven to lack some skill in interviewing and reading people. He was working on overcoming this weakness. He knew some cops were natural interviewers and could read anyone like a proverbial book. This was a skill Duarte had yet to develop. Adding to his discomfort was his feeling that he was out of his element so far from South Florida. The brisk breeze and his warm misty breath was a novelty for him. He had gone through Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri in the spring and summer and really had never seen snow until he was deployed to the Balkans. As a combat engineer with a specialized skill, he had never needed to drive himself through the ice and snow. And even though it was too warm for either, he didn’t mind that Caren Larson would be doing most the driving. He saw her coming down the block in the blue Department of Justice Ford Taurus, just like his issued car.

  “You look eager,” she said as he slipped into the clean, classless car.

  “Ready to get started.”

  “Well, hotshot, it’ll have to wait until we meet with the deputy AG.”

  “I thought I could go out to the scene while you briefed him.” He tried the ploy again.

  “He thought otherwise. He wants to meet you too. He’s very interested in this case.”

  Duarte looked out the window without speaking. This was typical administrative bullshit.

  Caren saw the look on his face. “Relax, he’s a brilliant man, you might even learn something.”

  He considered what his father thought about politicians and decided not to voice what he believed he could learn.

  She said, “We’ll be near the ATF headquarters. We can visit, if you’d like.”

  “No time. We have work to do. I’ll see headquarters soon enough.” He paused, and added, “As a supervisor.”

  The entrance and security of the main building for the Department of Justice impressed Duarte. Not only was the entrance awe inspiring; the uniformed security people were thorough, professional and efficient. His ID was verified in a matter of moments, and Caren entered with her issued pass. The suite of offices for the deputy AG on the fourth floor was nearly as impressive. A separate receptionist announced their arrival, flashing Caren a look of superiority while she made them stand there. The fiftysomething woman looked through wide, thick-rimmed glasses, and gave the impression of years of intimidating young attorneys. Caren stood her ground but clearly wasn’t about to buck the system. They were soon motioned on.

  As they approached the next set of doors, Duarte heard someone call out, “Alex Duarte. I heard you were coming.”

  He turned to see a tall man, about thirty-five, in a sharp business suit. His hair looked as if he had placed each strand strategically with a pair of tweezers. His toothy smile showed no flaws.

  “Hey, Colgan,” was Duarte’s only reaction.

  “I heard you were on your way, pardner.”

  “What’s with the drawl? Thought you were from Rhode Island?”

  “Delaware.”

  “Whatever. You didn’t have that accent when you left Florida.”

  “You just sort’ve develop these things around here.” He turned to Caren, who was just listening to the encounter. “I knew this hombre when I worked in the FBI office in West Palm Beach. I used to call him Ricky Ricardo.” He let out a booming laugh.

  Duarte said, “As I recall, you only did it once.”

  This caught Colgan short, as he rubbed a scar on his chin and seemed to reflect on the incident that had occurred soon after Duarte had arrived in the West Palm Beach ATF office.

  Duarte said, “What are you doing over here? I thought the FBI building was a few blocks away?”

  “I’m assigned to the AG. I answer directly to Bob.”

  “Bob?”

  Caren cut in, “Deputy Attorney General Roberto Morales.”

  Duarte nodded. “What do you do for him?”

  The taller man smiled. “Whatever is needed.”

  Duarte shrugged and started to move past the taller FBI agent.

  Colgan stepped in front of him. “Sorry, amigo. You gotta give up your phone.”

  “My what?”

  “Your cell phone.”

  “Why?”

  “The man doesn’t like to have cell phones in his office.”

  “But I can be armed?”

  Colgan smiled. “He’s a Republican. He likes guns.”

  Duarte looked over to Caren, who was retrieving her phone as well.

  Colgan said, “Don’t worry, the secretary will have it for you on your way out.”

  Duarte reached past his gun, enjoying the look on Colgan’s face as he reached farther back for his Nextel. “Here you go.”

  “Gracias, amigo.” The FBI man flipped the phone into the air, smiling at the ATF agent.

  Duarte just said, “See ya around,” then turned and headed toward the next set of doors they needed to enter.

  Caren stepped right in with him. “You have a problem with Colgan?”

  “Not especially.”

  “You just sort’ve walked away.”

  “I was done talking to him.”

  “I thought he was a friend of yours.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you worked together in West Palm Beach.”

  “We never worked together. He’s with the Bureau. I was too busy to hang out and gossip. Just like now, we’ve got too much to do to give him time to try to impress me with whatever bullshit secret job he has.”

  She smiled at the comment and said, “I see what you mean.”

  Another assistant, this one a tall, attractive woman, met them in a small conference room outside a door that had a sign reading ROBERTO MORALES, DEPUTY ATTORNEY GENERAL.

  She extended an elegant hand with polished nails to match her perfect lips. “Good morning, Agent Duarte, I’m Barbara Gould.” She had the handshake of a professional. She gave the slightest of nods to Caren, as she kept her brown eyes on Duarte.

  “Nice to meet you.” She held his hand, making him a little uncomfortable.

  “The deputy attorney general has been delayed. He insists that you wait in his office.”

  Duarte asked, “How long?”

  The woman looked shocked, like no one had ever dared ask about a superior’s schedule. She hesitated; then, looking at Duarte’s dark, focused eyes, she said, “Maybe ten o’clock.”

  Duarte turned to Caren. “That’s out of line. I have work to do. I’ll rent a car and head out to the amusement park.”

  The assistant said, “That’s not a good
idea, Mr. Duarte. Mr. Morales expects you as well. Besides, I’m sure I could make you comfortable.”

  Caren cleared her throat and said, “We’ll be fine, Barbara.” She turned to Duarte and said, “If Bob is expecting you, that’s as good as a direct order, soldier.” She smiled, but it didn’t soften his mood.

  Alberto Salez had slept in a little motel in southern Virginia the night before. He had not been able to reach his friend by phone, and knew the only other thing for him to do was drive up and meet him near his apartment. More than just warning him about the chance that he could be blown into little chunks, Salez needed an ally, and good old Don would be the perfect one. Big and smart were the first things that came to his mind when he thought about his friend. He may have packed on a few extra pounds since the time they all worked together in Texas, but he could be a handful if he was provoked.

  He drove carefully in the Toyota he had stolen on the spur of the moment. It drove fine; he had patched the steering column back together and could start it with either a screwdriver or an extra key, if only he’d go and have it made. The passenger’s window had the .22 bullet hole in it, but he kept it rolled down and no one noticed. He had the cash from the nice dead lady in the Honda, so it didn’t matter what he was driving. The vehicle switch with Garretti also eliminated the problem of having to dispose of the woman’s body. Now Garretti would be stuck doing it, if he ever got away from the cops at the scene of the accident.

  His friend’s apartment was easy to find, but he got no answer. It was a wide complex, with only two apartments each per tiny building. His next-door neighbor didn’t answer either. He had another shot. He’d try the amusement park where Don Munroe worked. At least he’d be safe there. No one would think to look for him at a big amusement park.