He crawled off the cot and stood, stretching his back. He had hidden the ATF agent’s Glock in his bed; he found it and slipped it into his belt. He had the other pistol—the one that belonged to the tall man he had stabbed—stashed in the bushes near Maria’s trailer, in case he’d had to flee and leave the Glock. That’s how he got ahead in life: planning and action.
There was no smell of breakfast foods in this trailer. These men all ate at the small cafeteria run by the camp. The only thing Salez smelled now was the old clothes piled near each bed and sweat from the previous day’s work. Four of the six men who lived there were already awake and getting dressed for their long day of labor. Salez thought of them as a bunch of losers, spending their days working and never getting ahead. That’s why he had been able to lead them around for so long. They had no drive. No ambition.
He looked over at Raul, with his flattened nose, and said, “Can you give me a ride?”
“Where?”
“Just to find a car?”
“Where?”
“I dunno, close by. I just need to get away.”
“Where?”
“Raul, what the fuck is wrong with you? Give me a ride.”
“I gotta get to work. Not many of us here, this time of year. We got a lot to do.”
“Raul, don’t give me any shit. I need a ride. Now.”
The biggest of the men, Ralph, heard the last comment and crossed the long trailer to be closer to Salez. “What’s your rush? Come eat and then we’ll take you.”
Salez nodded, then looked at the big man who had so willingly helped him try to capture the ATF agent. “That’s all right. I can skip breakfast.”
“But we can’t.” Ralph motioned to the others to leave the trailer.
Salez sensed there was a serious problem but couldn’t put his finger on it. He pulled Duarte’s Glock from his belt. He didn’t point it at anyone. He didn’t need to. “Hang on, fellas.” This time, he spoke in English. “Somebody better tell me what you ditchdiggers have in mind because I’m in no mood to play games.”
No one spoke or moved.
“Don’t make me show you what kind of mood I’m in.” He raised the pistol and pointed it randomly at the first man he saw, the youngest of the group—the kid named Iggy, who had not been involved in either fight with Duarte.
When still no one spoke, Salez fired a round through Iggy’s left leg, dropping the young man to the messy floor with a scream.
Ralph and Raul jumped at the sound of the shot, then Ralph said, “We’re not helping you because we know what you did.”
“What I did. Tell me, Ralph, what did I do that offended you so much?”
“You did something with Elenia from the sports club. She left with you and no one has seen her since.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I dropped her off at her house.” He left out that then he fucked her, twisted her neck and dumped her in a canal.
“And some of the locals saw you hold a knife to Maria Tannza’s throat yesterday.”
“That was just to scare the cops, so I could get away.”
Ralph stepped forward, bold now. “No, Berto, we were wrong. The cop is tough, but he’s not a bad guy. You are. He let us go from the pawnshop, even though you had us start the shit. He treated us okay.”
“Okay? Are you kidding me? Look at Raul’s nose and arm. He hit the man with a hammer.”
“And didn’t lie to us.”
“That’s enough.” He pointed the pistol at Ralph’s head. “Give me the keys to your Bronco. I’m leaving.”
Ralph said, “What if I said I don’t know where they are?”
Salez squeezed the unique trigger of the fancy automatic and felt the large frame pistol jump in his hand. The blast of the gunshot was brutal inside the trailer. Ralph fell back as a stream of blood shot out of his neck. The blood sprayed the wall and bathroom door like a sprinkler, as the big man fumbled around on the floor clutching at his neck. Salez stepped past him to Raul and said, calmly, “Where are the keys?”
Raul immediately pointed to the table, away from the beds. “Over there, on the table. It’s the silver key.”
Salez turned and stomped over to the table, barely registering Ralph’s gasping as he tried to stem the blood pouring from his neck. “You guys better not tell anyone I’m in your Bronco or I’ll be back. And you don’t want that, do you?” He raised the gun again.
All the men shook their heads frantically.
Salez turned and opened the door a crack and said, “Thanks for the hospitality, boys.”
Then he felt the door burst toward him, slamming into his face and arm at the same time. Something hit his wrist and sent the pistol flying across the room into the big, quiet form of Ralph. Salez turned toward the source of the blows and briefly saw the face of the ATF man, Duarte, then a foot hit him square in the chin and he fell backward as a few of his teeth soared out across the room.
As Duarte pulled up to the trailer that housed the male workers, he heard a gunshot from inside. He was out of his Taurus and had his backup Beretta 9mm in his hand instantly. He knew that Alberto Salez fired that shot, and he wasn’t letting that asshole slip by him no matter what happened.
He tried to get a glimpse inside, but no window was clean enough to see the interior of the large trailer. He could hear shouts inside, then another gunshot. Now he rushed toward the door near the back of the trailer and waited outside it with his pistol raised. He preferred to use his fists but realized that when the opponent is well armed you better be too. There was more shouting from inside, and the vibration of people moving. He climbed the stairs and stopped on the landing in front of the door. He paused, considering the value of bursting inside. It wasn’t just his safety at stake but that of the other people inside. He put his left hand on the door, keeping his pistol up with his right.
Just as he was about to turn the handle and rush inside, someone on the other side of the door opened it a crack. Duarte could see his pistol and the edge of Salez’s face through the opening. He threw his whole body against the door, slamming into the fugitive. Then he saw the pistol extended in Salez’s hand, and he delivered a hard, snapping front kick to Salez’s arm. He felt the forearm break and saw the pistol fly out across the room, landing next to a man on the floor. Then, without conscious effort, he delivered a devastating front kick to Salez’s chin, sending him crashing back into the wall, then the floor. Blood poured from the fugitive’s nose, lips and even a cut on his chin. Duarte had to keep himself from kicking the man again even though the fight was over.
He holstered his Beretta, took a breath and then turned to retrieve the Glock. Duarte froze when he saw that the man on the floor held the gun in shaky hands. Blood still seeped out of a wound in his neck. His complexion was pale and his eyes snapped open and shut like he was about to pass out.
Ralph pointed the gun at Salez as the fugitive started to open his own eyes. He shook his head and looked up at Duarte. “Motherfucker. Don’t you ever quit?”
From across the room, Ralph said, “Está diablo.”
Duarte said, “I understand that. You’re right. He is the devil.”
Now Salez was fully conscious, and his eyes snapped wide open. “Don’t let that beaner shoot me.”
Duarte looked at him. “Why not?” He backed out of the way so Ralph had a clear shot.
Salez said, “That’s not right. You have to protect me.”
“Will you testify?”
“Yes, yes, you know I will.”
Duarte looked at the panicked man and remembered his pledge to testify before he killed Tom Colgan. “Bullshit.”
The argument didn’t matter either way as Ralph started to jerk the trigger, popping off five shots before he fainted and dropped the pistol. Only two hit Salez. But that was enough. One entered his torn left ear and kept going into his brain, and the other into his side, shattering ribs and ending up in his heart.
Duarte immediately darted to Ralph, se
curing the gun and trying to render first aid to the big man, but it was too late. His last act was killing Salez.
This was going to take some explaining too.
48
MIKE GARRETTI SAT IN A TOYOTA HE HAD RENTED FROM A Hertz office in Alexandria, Virginia, under one of his aliases: Michael Barson. A good, nonoffensive name that couldn’t be associated with any one region of the country. He had walked a mile to the Hertz office after a trucker dropped him off. The beefy driver, hauling a load of fruit baskets, had given him a ride all the way from Daytona Beach. The bandage on Garretti’s shoulder itched, but it was better than having an exposed burn rubbing against his polyester pullover. In the two days since he had run past the shed on the farm in Florida and chucked in the knapsack bomb Duarte had made, Garretti had been on the road nonstop. He had one mission now. He knew his life as an army sergeant at Fort Hood was over, and he’d have to be careful about everything from now on—even how he approached his mom. The ATF man, Duarte, was smart. He probably knew that Garretti had managed to escape. The question was, how much did he want to have him captured?
Garretti took a sip of the Coke he’d bought from a vending machine. It seemed like no matter what he ate or drank, he still had the taste of that nasty canal water in his mouth. He had intended to just sort of skip through the canal and then keep going, but then he ran into the gunman who had jumped in the canal. At first, the guy just clung to him like he needed help, then, when he realized it was Garretti, he turned nasty. Garretti may not have been a combat veteran, but he was fit and the guy was mostly blind. He tried a sleeper, but it was easier to just close off his windpipe and choke him.
He had a lot to atone for. He knew it. There were a pile of bodies that were his fault, but mainly there was little Hector Tannza. Now he intended to set things right. Or, at least, a little more right. The adult deaths were bad, but he knew the best things about kids were that they were too young and innocent to know how shitty the world really is. Hector did not deserve what happened to him.
Garretti had gotten less and less sleep since that bombing and now he found himself just lying awake most nights. He’d see Hector’s face and Maria crying. He hoped she never realized what he had done. Now he understood Duarte’s drive to complete his investigation.
He drove slowly down the narrow street lined with BMWs and a few Mercedeses. The town houses all lined up and looked very similar. In Texas, these would be nice student housing. Here, they were nine hundred thousand dollars. He came to a set on a hill, with two stories on top of a garage built into the hill. Ten units, and the second-to-last one had the numbers 3207 on it. Bingo!
He parked as close as he could. He didn’t have his usual tools of the trade, but he had a few. This was a good plan that wouldn’t compromise his current status as “missing, presumed dead.” He had a buck knife and screwdriver and hoped that would be enough to break into the small access door on the side of the garage without leaving obvious marks. The streetlight nearest the town house illuminated the front and side yards. How convenient for burglars; he could clearly see the door.
It was still dark, but he wasn’t worried about waiting. He settled in and watched. He knew there was no way this jerk-off drove the simple Dodge in front. A few minutes after seven, his guess was validated when a well-dressed woman in her early fifties came out the front door, slipped into the small brown car and took off right past Garretti.
“Have a nice day, Mrs. Morales,” he said as the car rushed past. He knew they had no kids, and Mrs. Morales had a mid-level job at the Treasury Department. Deputy attorneys general had a more self-determined schedule.
Garretti gathered his stuff, walked up to the sidewalk near the house and was ready to make his move when another car pulled up. Whoever it was had a garage door opener and drove a little Kia. He slowed his walk, but clearly saw a young woman—real young, like an intern—slip out of the car, walk to the inner house door and slap the garage door button—all without ever looking back. The garage door started its slow trek down, and Garretti knew this was his chance. He raced forward and dove into the garage, careful not to trip the safety beam near the floor. He ended up near the Kia, well out of sight.
He stood, felt his way around the dark garage and boldly flipped on the light. The bimbo wouldn’t remember turning it off. He took a few seconds to survey the garage. No yard equipment or tools. That was about what he expected from a man like Morales. Just a few boxes on shelves in an otherwise clean garage. He wondered what bullshit Morales told his wife to keep her car outside. It was obvious the bimbo needed to see the coast was clear. The only other car inside was a new black Lincoln Continental.
He couldn’t help looking in the Kia. Inside the glove compartment, he found the registration in the name of Judy Matulis. So that was the name of the tall, hot-looking piece of ass that slipped in the house.
He tried the big Lincoln Continental’s driver’s-side door and, as he would expect from a car kept inside, the door was unlocked. This just got better and better. He went to work.
Twenty minutes later, he slipped out of the car, retrieved the length of tubing he had salvaged from a Dumpster in Alexandria and fitted it over the exhaust pipe. He entered the car again through the rear door and lay down flat in the Lincoln’s rear seat. He’d hear anyone coming in the garage. This was exactly what he wanted.
Almost two hours after he had darted into the garage, the inner door opened. He heard the beep of the unset alarm. He saw the young woman as she buttoned her blouse and checked her hair in the reflection from the window. Garretti thought, Forget the pussy, how does he get to the office at ten o’clock? He must dish some bullshit about briefing the president.
Garretti crouched down as he heard the Kia’s light door open and close and then the sound of the garage door opening. She was careful that her car wasn’t visible very long. Smart girl. He heard the garage door close again. Not only had she not noticed the light being on; she didn’t even bother to turn it off when she left.
Ten minutes later, the door opened again. Garretti heard the alarm activating, then the door to the Lincoln opened. He waited for the right moment. The engine rumbled to life, and he knew it was time.
He popped up from the rear seat and said, “Hiya, Bob.”
Morales nearly screamed: “Jesus Christ.”
“Not a very Christian reaction there, Bob. But I guessed you would be surprised to see me.”
“I was told you were killed.”
“More like, my life ended. This is a new life, Bob.”
“What do you want?”
“First, I need money and food from your house.”
Morales remained silent.
“That a problem, Bob?”
“No, I just want you to leave.”
“Your first priority should be that I don’t kill you.”
That caught the deputy attorney general’s attention.
Garretti pointed toward the radio. “You see that new display on your dash?”
Morales took a moment to look at the flashing red numbers on the new instrument added to the big car’s dashboard. Finally, after swallowing hard, Morales said, “Is that what I think?”
“If you think you just armed a bomb by turning on the car, you’re right.”
Morales froze.
“You can move around, you dumbass, just not off the front seat. I have you boxed in, but if you listen to me carefully everything will work out in the universe. Understand?”
“Not exactly.”
“Okay, let me explain it so a shithead like you will understand. First, I have C-4 under the dashboard and under your seat. If you take pressure off the seat, it will detonate. If you shut off the ignition, it will detonate. If you put the car in gear, it will detonate.”
“What do you want out of this?”
“First, I’m going into your house for money and some food.”
“And then?”
“We’ll talk about leaving me alone, and why that’s to
your benefit as well as mine. Sound good to you?”
“Listen, Garretti, I didn’t want things to get this far.”
“Save it. You sit tight and relax.” Garretti leaned up over the seat and added, “Oh yeah, give me your cell phone.”
Morales dug into his pocket and handed him a small flip phone.
Garretti said, “If you try any funny business, I let everyone know about Miss Judy Matulis. And I might blow a hole in your head.”
“And if I stay still and let you take the money and food?”
“We’ll reach an agreement, and you’ll never have to deal with me again.” He eased out the back passenger’s-side door and left it open so the hose he had set up off the exhaust could point into the car’s interior. “Keep your eyes forward and just relax. I’ll be back in a little while.” He left the door open and shuffled around the front of the big car’s black hood. He took a last look at Morales behind the wheel, not moving, with his hands comfortably at his side. Perfect.
He really did make a ham sandwich and drank two cans of diet Coke from the fridge. He took a few minutes in the bathroom on the first floor. It was nice, with a padded seat on the toilet and plenty of Coastal Living and Men’s Health magazines.
After a good forty minutes of exploring the beautiful town house, he popped his head out the door to the garage and took a peek at the deputy attorney general. Morales was dozing now, his head lolled to the side. Garretti knew he would’ve already felt a headache coming on before the drowsiness, but he would have attributed it to stress. After the picture Garretti painted of working everything out, he knew Morales wouldn’t risk blowing himself up or having his affair with the lovely Miss Matulis exposed. Garretti smiled at his ingenuity.
Ten minutes later, after finishing a couple of deviled eggs and another diet Coke, he popped back into the garage and retrieved his bag. Then he removed the hose from the exhaust pipe and shut the rear door. He opened the front passenger’s-side door and crawled in the still-running car. Morales was completely unconscious.
Field of Fire Page 33
