Field of Fire

by James O. Born

  “Same as Salez.”

  Garretti thought about it. “Can’t. I have Salez in hand.”

  “We have other options but would prefer to keep it all with you. We’ll pay.”

  Garretti thought about the nice pay package his employers offered.

  Then the voice said, “Double.”

  That surprised Garretti. He thought about it but knew what his final answer would be. “No, no thanks. It ends with Salez. Then I’m clean.”

  “But,” started the voice, but Garretti hung up. He headed back to the room at a slower stroll. He could just make out the first ray of sunlight rising from the east. He had made the right decision no matter what they offered. This whole business seemed more interesting and glamorous before he actually had to kill people. He had enough to be remorseful for with just the kid out at the camp. No way he wanted to add an ATF agent who was just doing his job. It wasn’t right. He was tired of soldiers and cops doing the dirty work for the country and then getting the shaft. He thought about the subject as he approached his motel room. But when he opened the door and saw the smashed remains of the empty chair and loose ropes on the ground, it popped out of his mind.

  He drew his pistol and ducked into the bathroom to make sure Salez wasn’t planning a later ambush, then raced out the door to look up and down the street in front of the motel. There was no sign of Salez.

  37

  DUARTE PARKED THE TAURUS IN PLAIN SIGHT ON THE SIDE street next to the Sunrise Cafe and waited to see if he noticed any movement. He checked his watch. Seven-fifty. A little early, but if someone had tapped his cell phone, as he suspected, and they wanted any evidence in this case, they would be here early too.

  He slowly opened the door and then climbed out onto the sidewalk. He had his usual loose shirt over a T-shirt to conceal his Glock model 22, with the full fifteen .40 caliber rounds in it. As little as he liked to use handguns, he wanted it with him this morning. As weird as things were getting, he knew it might come in handy.

  Before he had made it to the corner to the café, a figure turned the corner in front of him and then stopped.

  Duarte froze, then relaxed slightly.

  “Well, well, Señor Duarte.” FBI agent Tom Colgan let a broad smile cross his face.

  “What are you doing here, Tom?”

  “I’m down to meet with you and Caren. I’m staying up the street at the Crowne Plaza, so I came for coffee here. It’s only a few blocks away. This is where we used to eat breakfast when I was assigned here.”

  “I didn’t know you were coming.”

  Colgan chuckled. “Hey, amigo, the FBI doesn’t report to you. I answer to the deputy attorney general. And he wants this shit wrapped up.”

  “I wouldn’t mind it being over either.”

  “Make an arrest, hombre. Make an arrest.”

  Before Duarte could reply, another man stepped around the corner with a pistol in his hand.

  “Don’t move.”

  Duarte leaned around Colgan, “It’s okay, Frank.”

  Colgan said, “And who the hell is this?”

  Duarte didn’t answer directly. “I’ve got some trust issues. He’s my backup.”

  Colgan looked from Duarte to his brother Frank. “What are you talking about, vato?”

  But Duarte had his eyes on a Ford Excursion turning onto the street from Belvedere Road. Something about the deliberate speed, and the way it swung on the street right next to the three men, made him realize, even before the window rolled down to reveal a man with the barrel of an MP-5 pointing at Duarte, that this vehicle was trouble.

  A short, dark man with sharp eyes looked calmly over the front sight of the short submachine gun. “The first man to move gets everyone killed. Understood?”

  Duarte nodded. Colgan froze. Behind Colgan, Frank Duarte dropped his pistol to the sidewalk. Duarte looked down at his backup Glock model 28 he had given his brother for the assignment.

  Frank’s shaky voice said, “Just…just don’t shoot.”

  The man in the Excursion’s passenger’s seat said, “Now, Agent Duarte, you have something from Mr. Lawson we need.”

  Duarte stayed cool, and said, “And if I don’t?”

  “I will shoot these men.”

  Duarte looked up at the man in the Excursion. He was a professional who would carry out a threat like that. Duarte couldn’t see the driver clearly, but knew even if he managed to take out the immediate threat that the driver was armed too. And there was someone in the backseat.

  The man with the MP-5 said, “What’s it going to be, Agent Duarte? Do you have what we need, or do I spray these two and take you with us?”

  Then another man popped up on the other side of the truck and slapped something on the windshield.

  The men in the big SUV’s front seats both jumped when they saw the pistol pointed at the driver’s head and what was on the windshield.

  Duarte recognized the man immediately. It was the bomber who had taken Salez yesterday.

  “You,” was all Duarte could say.

  The man smiled like he had run into an old friend. “I know, I know, I get around pretty good.” He motioned for the driver to lower the window. When it was down, the man said, “I guess you know what’s on the windshield?” He smiled at their silence. “It’s a decent-sized chunk of C-4. The way I wedged it on the windshield and the edge of the hood, it will make a great fragmentation device that’ll cut you two so bad you’ll look like a piece of paper cut by an epileptic with scissors.”

  Duarte had to ask, “What are you doing?”

  “In case you couldn’t figure it out, I’m saving you.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Duarte shrugged. “What now?”

  “Walk away. I’ll let these dopes go on their way. Without the element of surprise, they’ll leave us alone for now.”

  Duarte said, “Frank, pick up the pistol and come with me.” He looked at Tom Colgan. “C’mon, Tom. We’ll stick together.”

  Colgan could barely move. “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Wish I knew. And until I’m sure about your role in this whole thing, I’m not confiding in you.”

  The bomber said, “That’s a good plan because I don’t even know who all is involved, but I know they have a hard on for you. I’d watch my back, ATF man.” He held the gun up to the driver, then used his other hand to retrieve the C-4. “Drive, asshole. Drive, and don’t let me see you again.”

  The driver turned and said, “Same here.”

  Duarte watched the Excursion ease down the street as the bomber backed away quickly to the parking lot across the street. Duarte didn’t have it in him to chase the man right now. Besides, he had Colgan, and he had a lot of questions.

  Frank, sweating profusely, said, “What are we gonna do?”

  “We aren’t doing anything to do anything.” He kept the gun on Colgan, reached in the tall FBI agent’s coat and retrieved his small revolver. “I have to find out who’s involved and on which side.” He looked over at his older brother and said, “You did well. I appreciate it.”

  “We’re family. I couldn’t leave you hanging.”

  “It might get worse.”

  “Now that I’m used to it, I might not pee in my pants next time.”

  Duarte looked over and was shocked to see he wasn’t kidding. His jeans were stained dark around his crotch.

  Duarte said, “Happens to everyone.”

  “But as my brother, I know you’ll never tell anyone.”

  Every muscle in Alberto Salez’s shoulders felt like fire. Aside from having his hands locked behind him for hours by Garretti, he had strained them when he managed to jump up and down with enough force to shatter the chair he was tied to. Then fumbling with the motel door and running had aggravated his injury. Now, after a good twenty-minute run, then hiding in the bushes for he didn’t know how long, he found himself in another extraordinarily awkward position. He was in a small detached garage
in an older section of West Palm Beach that he had heard people refer to as El Cid. He knew it was home to the up-and-coming, as well as some older residents. The neighborhood was a favorite of attorneys, doctors and investment types. The big Spanish-style houses sat on curving streets that ended at the wide Intracoastal Waterway.

  He had picked this garage by chance. The side door was poorly secured, so it gave way easily when Salez shoved with his shoulder. He had stumbled inside, then spent some time regaining his composure. As the sun rose, he began to get a better impression of the dank one-car garage. It was crammed full of all sorts of junk: unused lawn equipment, a workbench, lawn mower, mountain bike, and tools were scattered everywhere.

  While Salez sat and caught his breath, his eyes wandered endlessly over the amazing chaos of the building. Did these people even know they had a garage? After standing and stretching his legs, he tried forcing the cuffs from the rear to the front by stepping through them, but he couldn’t bend his leg nearly enough. Instead, he found himself momentarily stranded on the floor of the messy garage with his right foot caught uncomfortably in the cuffs. Finally he had managed to untangle his foot, and found himself still handcuffed behind his back inside a smelly, moldy garage. Except now he realized he was hungry too.

  Then he saw something that might help. Shoved in the corner, between the end of the old, shaky workbench and the dinged wall, were a pair of bolt cutters. A medium-sized pair, with two-foot handles. Maybe it wouldn’t cut a padlock, but it would do fine on the links of the handcuffs. He scurried across the room and used his foot to wrestle the bolt cutters to the floor, then kicked them into the open. That turned out to be the easy part.

  He fumbled with the clumsy implement, as he sat next to the cutters and tried to use his cuffed hands to move them. How would he ever be able to open them and then apply enough pressure to cut the handcuffs? He tried the obvious maneuvers without much success. Then he found a way to open them with his feet. He placed one handle flat on the ground against the leg of the workbench. He carefully lined up the pincers with the cuffs, then twisted his body so he could kick the bolt cutters. He kicked the handle hard, and felt it close in a quick, smooth motion, only to realize the sharp pincers had come off the handcuffs and closed with stunning speed on his left pinky.

  He let out a sharp yelp, and he felt the bolt cutters close just below his middle knuckle. When he twisted around to get a look, he knocked his severed little finger across the floor. He felt sick to his stomach but knew now he had to act quickly if he was going to survive. He hoped his short scream hadn’t been heard by anyone in the house.

  Salez took a deep breath and tried to focus on maneuvering the bolt cutter into place a second time. As he was about to try another kick to the bolt cutters, he closed his hands into fists to avoid another amputation. He twisted his foot to kick, and then saw the door to the garage swing in and someone step inside. He knew he couldn’t wait any longer and swung his foot again.

  Caren Larson let the water from the massaging jets of the shower run over her. The hotel near downtown West Palm Beach was the nicest she had stayed in during any trip she’d made in connection to the bombing investigation. She had been feeling run-down, not to mention a little lonely, when Alex Duarte hadn’t even called to check on her last night. She had gone to bed early, slept well and then made good use of the hotel’s gym. She was later than usual in starting her workday, but after the month she had been through an hour here or there didn’t amount to much.

  She was tired of running the case, and the other, nonlegal elements of it, through her head. She may have been naïve at first, then perhaps purposely obtuse, but now she knew something was very wrong with the investigation. The problem was, she didn’t know exactly what was wrong, or who she could turn to for help in fixing it.

  She felt an odd sensation like a chill, then thought she saw a flash of light from the bedroom under the bathroom door. She shut off the water, pulled a towel off the rack and wrapped it around her as she slowly and quietly stepped to the bathroom door. It was opened a crack, and she could see that someone was sitting in the large cushioned chair in the corner. It looked like a man, and he had his legs crossed casually like he was just waiting to greet her.

  She felt her heart start to beat faster, and then glanced around the bathroom for a weapon of some kind. Anything. She picked up a brush with a pointed, solid handgrip and gripped the bristles like a handle. She looked out of the cracked door again and tried to estimate if she could make it out the front door. If the intruder had locked it with the bolt, she’d never get out before he was on her.

  She took a breath, clenched the brush, then burst out of the bathroom to confront the intruder.

  Mike Garretti snickered as he watched the SUV pull away from the corner with all three men inside. He knew the guys inside were fuming, but he didn’t care. This shit had gone too far. Killing a cop? Please.

  He nodded to Duarte as the ATF agent and the other two men left the area. Garretti didn’t know the tall guy but noticed that Duarte didn’t trust him too much. He liked Duarte’s style.

  Garretti intended to retrieve the file that Salez claimed was hidden in the trailer out at the work camp. He intended to scoot out there right away. He’d come up with some story for Maria Tannza that wouldn’t upset her too much. God knows the poor woman had been through enough, and Garretti realized it was his fucking fault. Maybe that was why he had felt he needed to rescue the ATF guy. He had seen Duarte’s army jacket, and read the report about his action in Bosnia. The guy could relate.

  After the SUV was out of sight, Garretti, who had simply walked across the street to his own rental, headed back to his hotel to clear everything out. He’d be on alert because he knew the three men that just drove off were not happy with him at the moment. He also realized his long-term employment prospects were in the shitter as well. If he could retrieve the file and claim to have it as well as other evidence, he might be able to negotiate some form of a life. All he wanted now was to be left alone. If not, then maybe he could come up with a few tricks of his own.

  38

  SALEZ FELT HIS FOOT MAKE CONTACT WITH THE HANDLE and then the handle close solidly on his cuffs. His hands burst free, with matching stainless steel bracelets on his wrists. His left hand was streaked with blood, and he had to blink at the open space where his pinky should have been. Then he looked up at the man who had entered the garage.

  “What the hell are you doing?” shouted the man. He was younger than Salez, maybe thirty-five, and very clean-cut. He was wearing a nice suit without the coat. Definitely a lawyer.

  Salez was dizzy from the pain in his left hand. He hadn’t lost as much blood as he thought, but it still hurt. “I’m sorry, sir. I just wanted to stay dry and sleep.”

  “Another fucking homeless bum. Why here? There are more houses along the highway.”

  “Just found it. I’ll leave and never come back, I swear.”

  The man sighed and visibly relaxed slightly. Then he saw the blood on the floor. “What’d you do? Are you alone?”

  Salez nodded. “I cut my finger bad. I just want to leave.”

  “Hang on, I’m not so sure.”

  Salez stood up and tried to hunch over so he looked more feeble. Blood still poured from his severed finger. “Sir, I’m sorry, I’ll leave.”

  The younger man put his hand on Salez’s chest and said, “You’re not leaving until I say so, buster.”

  Salez had had enough of this pompous ass. He swung both his arms up so the handcuff bracelets struck the man simultaneously in the temples on either side of his head. The man shuddered, and Salez brought a knee up to his groin. The impact even hurt Salez’s left hand with the missing digit.

  Once the man was on the ground and holding his crotch, Salez kneeled down and said, “Where are your car keys?”

  The man gulped air and tried to look at Salez. “Kitchen,” was all he could wheeze out.

  “Is anyone else home?”

&nbs
p; The man shook his head. “No, my wife is at work. Just take the car and go.”

  “Wallet?”

  “With the keys. Now, just leave.”

  Salez stood up, satisfied the man had told him the truth. He needed to bandage his hand, then get the hell out of here.

  He looked down at the man and said, “Close your eyes and count to fifty while I leave. Don’t open them until you reach fifty and by then I’ll be gone. Okay?”

  The man nodded furiously. “Okay, okay.”

  Salez glanced around quickly and saw the handle of some garden tool within reach. He looked down at the man and said, “Close those eyes, now.”

  The man squeezed his eyes shut and started to count. “One, two, three…”

  “Slower.”

  “…four…”

  Salez reached over and grasped the handle with his right hand. It was heavy enough to make him step closer and pull up. Once it was clear of the debris on the floor, he saw it was a sledgehammer. A heavy one too.

  “…five…”

  He hefted it, then lifted it above his head and swung down hard just as the man was about to say “six.” His skull cracked and twisted like an eggshell, as blood and a clear fluid poured onto the ground. The pain in Salez’s left hand was so intense he dropped the hammer right where he had been standing. He took two steps, leaned down and picked up his mangled finger off the floor near the workbench, then turned quickly toward the house to get a bandage and something to eat.

  Caren Larson froze as she came through the door and then almost felt like she would faint with relief.

  Alex Duarte said calmly, “That’s some entrance.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “I may not be a cute girl, but sometimes a badge works well too.”

  “You scared the shit out of me.” She felt her heart slow down. As she stepped closer, she noticed for the first time that Duarte looked concerned. Not his usual somber but something else. “What’s wrong?”