Field of Fire
Page 32
“Keep coming,” murmured Duarte.
The SUV turned slowly and then eased, a foot at a time, over the bridge.
Garretti shouted: “Now! Now! Blow that fucking thing.”
Duarte held firm with the extension cord plug still away from the wall.
Garretti reached over and put his hand on Duarte’s, holding the plug. Duarte turned and said through clenched teeth: “Not yet.”
They watched as the big Excursion pulled into the main field and almost came to a stop.
Garretti was outraged. “You let what happened in Bosnia get to you. Now they’re here.”
Duarte wasn’t upset. From Garretti’s point of view, this was a screwup, but he had other plans.
The man with the MP-5 climbed out of the Excursion and surveyed the field and trailer. If he had been dressed in fatigues instead of a green polo shirt, he would’ve looked like an army commander deciding how to storm a position. He finally yelled to them across the hood of the SUV: “We know you’re in there. C’mon out and save the ladies’ skin.”
Garretti said, “You’re not going to listen, are you? We still got booby traps.”
“Would you calm down?” Duarte said, still not making a move.
From the Excursion, the man yelled: “Don’t worry, Garretti. We got a trip to Seattle planned. We’ll take care of your boy for you.”
Garretti sat back. “Son of a bitch. How did he know about Tammy?”
Duarte said, “Doesn’t matter.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re not going anywhere.” Duarte shoved the plug into the outlet and instantly the bridge disintegrated in a cloud of dust, dirt and smoke. A second later, Duarte heard the light patter of the wooden fragments falling onto the roof of the trailer.
In the field, the men ducked low behind the big SUV, but at least one caught some shredded wood in his leg. He limped and wobbled to the front of the vehicle.
Duarte didn’t hesitate. He stepped to the side door in the kitchen, with Garretti on his heels. In the small carport, he picked up the grill lighter he had pre-positioned at the gutter with a long strip of quick fuse he had laid. The fuse ran down the hill toward the field.
Duarte turned to Garretti and said, “Here’s a new way to look at the phrase ‘field of fire.’” He squeezed the lighter’s trigger, igniting the fuse that led to the pool of gasoline and kerosene he had used to soak the tarps and puddle all over the field with the sheets of plastic. The fuse sparked, and sputtered down the slight hill. Duarte held his breath as he wondered if the old commercial fuse was still any good. He could hear Garretti willing the fuse to continue, muttering, “C’mon, make it, make it.” Suddenly, it looked like the sparks and smoke stopped coming from the fuse. Duarte felt his breath escape as he stared at the quiet field. Then, after resparking, it continued its trip toward the broad field. After one final flash, it hit the large pools of gas from the fifty-five-gallon drums, causing the field to shoot up in geysers of flame.
The flash of the fuel mixture igniting hurt Duarte’s eyes as it cut in front of the SUV.
The three men abandoned the vehicle en masse and started toward the shed, firing a few rounds in the general direction of the trailer as they did. The one man with the wounded leg lagged behind, ignored by his friends. But they all headed for the shed.
Duarte looked at Garretti and said, “Like I said: lemmings.”
Caren Larson instinctively ducked when the bridge blew, but she could see Alex Duarte had waited until the truck was clear. Had he really been afraid to blow up the SUV on the bridge because of what had happened in Bosnia? He seemed in control, but this was all happening so fast she didn’t know what to think.
Then Duarte and Garretti raced out the side door, and a few seconds later she saw what he had in mind. The blown bridge was to keep them from escaping, not to kill them. He had set up a series of tarps with flammable fuels and liquids, which were now igniting like bombs. She saw the men jump from the SUV and race to the small shed in the corner of the property. Then she heard two smaller pops, followed by a man screaming. A second later, she saw him run out of the shed holding his face and dive into the muddy, nasty canal at the front of the property.
Duarte came back into the trailer with Garretti. He knelt next to Caren at the window to survey the mayhem he had caused. He looked excited, even happy, at his efforts.
He said, “Wow, look at that burn.”
“You had this planned all along.”
“Of course, why else would I bring us all out here?” His eyes widened as more of the tarp burned, giving off a thick black smoke.
He said, “I saw the acid bomb took out one guy. That leaves two more.”
“Acid bomb. How did you…” She stopped, knowing that he had found a way and was doing it to protect her. It was just that an acid bomb sounded so cruel—like vengeance.
Garretti had gone to Maria on the couch and tried to comfort her, with his arm around her shoulder. She was shaking at the sounds of the explosions and sporadic gunfire.
Then Garretti asked Duarte, “What now? The fire will burn out in a minute, and we still have two armed men in the shed.”
Duarte turned and said, “Salez blew part of my plan by taking the two guns. All we have is your Browning, but it’s locked in my car.” He looked past Caren and said, “I have that pack with an IED of C-4 and enough nails and screws to shred anything in fifty feet.”
Garretti said, “We could run.”
“No good. We need to attack. I’ll get the pistol and advance on the shed while they’re still confused.”
“How long is the fuse on your knapsack bomb?”
“Three seconds. Why?”
Garretti sprang up from the couch and darted across the room, snatching up the knapsack as he did. He paused at the front door, motioning for Duarte to stay there. “Let me. I owe you guys this much.” He looked at Maria on the couch and added, “Especially her.”
Caren stared as he turned and raced out the door. They watched his progress as he sprinted across the smoky field, the fires already dying out. His lean frame moved quickly and smoothly as he closed the distance on the shed in a matter of seconds. As he approached the small wooden structure, he didn’t hesitate as he threw himself into the door of the shed. A few seconds later, the window in the shed blew out, then the rear wall collapsed, followed by the roof, as a fire spread in the ruins. Fueled by the stored chemicals, it quickly engulfed that entire corner of the property.
Caren sat back hard on the trailer’s floor, trying to catch her breath. Duarte slowly stood, watching the fire outside.
46
ALEX DUARTE COULDN’T REMEMBER THE LAST TIME HE felt so totally exhausted. As soon as Garretti set off the bomb in the shed, he had called the sheriff’s office for help. He had Caren and Maria stay inside the manager’s trailer, on the couch, and they knew not to talk to anyone yet. Caren knew why.
Now he sat on the steps to the trailer, listening to Palm Beach County Sheriff’s Captain Annette Cutter as she asked him first the obvious questions, and now she’d started inching around the more subtle ones. There was no one else nearby, as the bomb techs checked the remains of the deadly little shed Mike Garretti had blown to bits. Personnel from the medical examiner’s office continued to recover the remains in and around the shed.
Captain Cutter leaned her large frame against the trailer. “So these men came to get the fugitive Salez and this other fella, Garretti, blew them up? That’s what you’re saying?”
He knew better than to shrug off an experienced cop like the captain. He knew what she wanted to hear, and was smart enough to know there was a lot more to the story, but he hoped she trusted him to tell her later. After he had settled a few things. Finally Duarte said, “Pretty much, it was all Garretti.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“That’s my hope.”
“And the fugitive is in the wind.”
“I’ll get after him.”
Duarte frowned. He had not forgotten the efforts of Tom Colgan. “He saved all of us. It was Salez who stabbed him. That’s why I know I’ll catch him.”
Captain Cutter nodded her head and cut her eyes to Duarte. “You gonna set things right?”
“I guarantee it.”
“I’ll wait a few days until we start writing everything up.”
He nodded, too tired to answer, as one of the medical examiner investigators walked up.
The middle-aged man in the white biohazard suit said, “We got two bodies in the shed. Both blown to shit, with nails and everything else stuck in ’em. There’s a third body in the canal, with burns on his face, a severe leg wound and bruises around his neck, like he was choked. We’ll wait for the autopsy to say for sure.”
Captain Cutter turned to Duarte. “That everyone? Or is there another?”
Duarte stood and said, “Let me have a look at the bodies.” He started to walk toward the shed, where the three bodies were now laid out on a tarp. He didn’t want to answer just yet. Once they were standing over the tarp, he looked down and could hardly tell the two bodies from the shed were human. He recognized the guy with the MP-5 from the remnants of the green polo shirt he was wearing, but his face was a red, pockmarked mask of torn flesh and exposed bone. He didn’t know if it was his acid bomb or the improvised explosive device that Garretti had detonated that had caused the damage. The third body was the driver. Duarte could easily recognize him, despite the burns around his eyes and cheeks. He had the wood from the bridge in his leg. These were the men from the Excursion.
Duarte looked at Captain Cutter and said, “I think that’s everyone. The Excursion had two or three men in it, but I’m not sure. I can’t ID those two. But one must be Garretti.”
The captain said, “I have many more questions about how you got here and why these men were after you, but I know I don’t want to hear it now.”
Duarte smiled slightly and said, “Captain, you’re a very smart woman. But you have my promise everything will be worked out shortly.”
“This is a federal problem, as far as I’m concerned.”
Caren Larson sat in her hotel room in an uncomfortable chair across from Alex Duarte, who was seated in a similar chair. With Salez on the loose, they had set Maria up in the room next door until it was safe. She was no doubt sound asleep by now. She had experienced more excitement in one day than most people did in three lifetimes.
Caren was tired too, but was more interested in talking with Duarte right now. He had somehow slipped away from the scene without having to give a full account of what happened. Now she wanted to know what their plan was. She had come to believe everything Mike Garretti had told them. She worked for a monster, and it had to end.
She looked into Duarte’s eyes. “You always seem to know what to do next. What’s our plan?”
He wiped his face with his hand and sighed.
She wasn’t sure if he was just tired or if it was something more. She had not seen him look so down before this.
She said, “We could go to the news media.”
He shook his head slowly and remained deep in concentration. Finally he said, “We’re not Deep Throat. We don’t have an ax to grind. I refuse to think the whole system is corrupt because one pinhead tried to use it to his advantage.”
“Then where do we go?”
“I’d start with us documenting what we have and talking directly to the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of Florida. God knows enough crimes took place here to give him jurisdiction.”
“But Morales would hear about it.”
“Doesn’t matter now. The cat’s out of the bag. Besides, the U.S. Attorney is appointed by the president. He has some juice. I don’t think any of them would want to be seen as helping a creep like Morales.”
“What should we document? I mean, a lot happened, but what proof do we have?”
“I’ll find Salez. He’ll talk. It may be the only reason he lives. That guy was the worst of the bunch and I was worried about him being killed. I’ve learned a lot.”
“You had no way to know.”
He shrugged. She knew he was hard on himself.
Caren said, “How bad did Garretti look?”
Duarte hesitated. He swallowed hard and said, “All the bodies looked bad.”
She searched his face for something else. The stress of the past two days was etched in his sagging eyes and shoulders.
He stretched and said, “I gotta get going.”
She reached across and put her hand on his. “You could stay, Kojak.” She winked.
He looked at her and said, “I better go home.”
She could tell—any woman could—that he was still unsure of her because she had kept so much of the case secret from him. She didn’t blame him. A guy like that expected honesty even if it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. She hoped that time might change things.
After he left, she started to cry about everything, from her bad career move and ethical lapse to little Hector Tannza, whose mother slept in the very next room. She cried until exhaustion overtook her and she drifted off and dreamed about everything from her bad career choices and ethical lapse to little Hector Tannza. Only, this time, he was alive and smiling.
Alberto Salez had crouched in the same spot behind some bushes as he had since he watched his borrowed Caddy get towed. He had thought about confronting the tow truck driver with his pistols, but there were two tow truck operators and a Palm Beach County Sheriff’s cruiser parked down the street. It took forever for all of them to clear out. He was stiff and tired, and his hand had continued to bleed steadily. He was a little light-headed, and the Percocets he had taken earlier had definitely worn off. The pain seemed to radiate with every heartbeat. On top of everything else, he was now dog tired and hungry. Really hungry.
He considered walking to the highway and tying to hitch a ride, but, considering his current condition and his fugitive status, he rejected that course of action. He would’ve broken into Maria’s trailer but was afraid the gunmen might return, or, if they somehow escaped, Maria and that fucking ATF agent might show up. That might be ugly. He knew that if he saw that prick again, he’d shoot first and worry about how fast the guy was later.
He eyes wandered down the road to the single workers’ bunkhouse. It was just a big trailer, but he had spent several nights with his posse there over the past months. He stood, feeling his joints creak and muscles stretch. He slowly started to limp along behind the hedge toward the trailer. He could see there were still a few lights on in the bunkhouse. It wasn’t too late. He’d say hello, grab a bite to eat and then sleep off some of this pain. In the morning, he’d find a way out of this shithole.
He paused, and knocked on the front door.
After a few seconds, the door opened, and the youngest of his old posse, Iggy, said over his shoulder to the others, in Spanish, “I can’t believe it. Berto came back to roost.”
Salez stepped into the trailer but was surprised by the apathy that met him. No one seemed concerned that he had been kidnapped right in front of them at the pawnshop. As he looked around, there were more bandages than usual. Raul, his main pal, had his right arm in a cast and sling, and his nose was still flat like a pancake on his broad face. The ATF man, Duarte, had really worked these guys over but good.
Salez said, “So, you guys okay?”
The glares and grunts he got in return seemed to indicate he’d better be happy with any hospitality at all.
47
ALEX DUARTE FELT THE WEARINESS SEEP RIGHT OUT OF his bones once he lay down in his own bed. It was near dawn now, and he had survived the most dangerous day of his life—and that included his time in combat in Bosnia. He had no regrets about keeping his mouth shut about Garretti—something he might not have done a few weeks ago. He had read the gu
y well through his words as well as his actions. He hadn’t needed to risk his life to save Duarte, Colgan and Frank when the gunmen had them cornered. He hadn’t needed to charge the shed either, though that had also been a chance to escape. Maybe Garretti knew Duarte would remain silent about his missing corpse. Duarte wondered what the bomber had in mind to do now. He didn’t seem like someone you’d want to cross.
As he shut his eyes and, for a change, felt sleep rushing in upon him, he heard a noise that brought him back to consciousness. It seemed faint and faraway at first, but then he realized what it was and sat up wide awake. He jumped out of his bed and followed the noise to his closet, where he dug through the pockets of his jeans and opened the cover to his cell phone.
“Duarte,” was all he said as he answered the small phone.
He heard a spate of Spanish and paused.
Duarte then said, “Can you speak English?”
In a clear but accented voice, a man said, “This is Ralph Garcia.”
“Who?”
“From the pawnshop. I came with Alberto Salez the other day. You gave us your number, if we ever saw him again.”
“Oh yeah, I remember you. You better have seen him recently to be calling me at this time of night.”
“He’s asleep in our bunkhouse right now.”
“At the camp?”
“Yeah. Down the road from Maria Tannza’s home.”
“I’ll be there soon. It’s more than an hour’s drive.”
“I don’t think he’s leaving anytime soon.”
“You’re a good man, Ralph.”
“Don’t tell anyone I called.”
Alberto Salez woke up as the sun was just rising. He felt like he had been drinking tequila all night, then he remembered exactly why he felt like shit. Although his stomach rumbled, and the dingy sheets covering the cot he had slept on were covered with the blood still seeping from his severed finger, he knew he had to get out of here as quickly as possible. The only question was how.