Vinnie touched a button on the short machine gun’s trigger guard, causing the beam of the flashlight to narrow on a man leaning on the balcony of an apartment across the street. Satisfied he was no threat, Vinnie opened the beam again and continued his sweep. “Like I said, Billy, just a bunch of loudmouths.”
Before Tasker could answer, a rock sailed into the middle of the agents from down the street. Then more debris came from the crowd.
Vinnie yanked down his face shield as a bottle shattered across it. He tilted his head back, saying, “Like I said, Billy, a bunch of dangerous loudmouths.”
Tasker raised the rifle to his shoulder, sighting in on a bottle sailing through the air. “I wish,” he muttered. All four agents moved from side to side, avoiding rocks and bottles. The cops in front of them, using their big shields to cover themselves, had no trouble. Two cops using their nightsticks like baseball bats were hitting rocks back in the direction they came from.
No one could see who was throwing shit because of the crowds right in front of them. The main body was in front of the field force with a string of people lining the side-walks past Tasker and the other FDLE agents. It was getting hard to keep an eye on the rooftops with the crowd next to them, and still dodge the rocks.
A muscular guy in his twenties increased the intensity of his taunts as the rocks and bottles subsided. During a lull in the shelling, he screamed, standing on his toes as he leaned into it, “You fucking cops are gonna pay. Yeah, that’s right, you guys dressed in black. Too many of us, we’ll run right over you.” Then he’d repeat a variation of the threat like a broken record, never resting.
Tasker saw Vinnie casually turn and lower his MP-5, closing the beam of the flashlight until he illuminated the man in the crowd; then, without looking at the man, Vinnie brought the light beam to a small dot on the man’s forehead, between his eyes.
The man’s mouth snapped shut in mid-sentence and he stepped back into the crowd, disappearing completely.
Vinnie laughed, “The shot that’s never fired.”
DARK clouds rolled across the moon again, teasing the tired cops with a downpour. At least it would break up the crowd for a while. But like the earlier clouds, these brushed by to the west, sprinkling the lawns in Hialeah and the Redlands to the south, but only booming and casting the occasional flash of lightning over Overtown and Liberty City.
TASKER twisted his neck, trying to stay loose. It had been almost three hours since they’d moved into position, an hour since Vinnie had scared the screamer back into the crowd. The radio traffic coming through Tasker’s earpiece from the other field forces told a similar tale: sporadic rocks and bottles while the big groups got more aggressive, moving in packs toward the cops, then in another direction. The police tactics, mostly dodging rocks and abuse and acting individually, changed to military tactics, moving as a group, using the whole field force as a threat. Cops are used to fending off threats alone; it isn’t natural to be in a group. Tasker realized that it looked like two armies clashing. Although the whole conflict sent a good scare into Tasker, he noticed some of the other team members looked like they were having a ball.
A Miami captain walked over to the agents. “Hey, guys, we got a problem.” The tall man in a tailored uniform pointed across a field. “Some of the rioters broke off and took over our community policing office over in the strip mall.”
Tasker couldn’t believe someone would refer to the dilapidated string of two stores and a police office as a “strip mall.”
“Need you fellas to pump some gas in it. We’re gonna retake it. Have to for psychological reasons. Can’t let them think we’re backing down. It’ll embolden the crowd. Happened the last riot and can’t happen again.”
Vinnie was already surveying the situation, dropping his MP-5, letting it hang around his shoulder by its strap. He pulled a 37-millimeter gas gun from his rear pack. “No problem, Captain,” Vinnie said.
The captain turned to his field force and yelled, “Gas,” causing half the cops to drop to one knee and pull their black gas masks from pouches. It was a drill practiced over and over: half covered while half put on their masks. The FDLE agents did the same thing, switching until everyone was protected.
Just the sight of the masks scared most of the crowd back a block or two, people fading into any open doorway they could find. The force moved toward the small police office, then parted so the FDLE agents could move up. Vinnie stepped up and lofted the gas gun, elevating the barrel to lob a round through the front of the office. Tasker could see people moving around inside the office as Vinnie fired the gas gun with a loud “whoop” sound, not like a rifle. Then he unsnapped the barrel like a shotgun and dumped the empty round on the ground, quickly replacing it with another CS gas round. He raised the gun and sent a second round into the office. The gas started rising as people streamed from the small building.
Tasker shouted, “Hey, Vinnie, shouldn’t we have warned the other field force?”
“Oops,” Vinnie said, scrambling for his radio. He shouted into the radio, “Hutch, we deployed gas downwind of you; you might need to suit up.”
Tasker heard a “No shit” and a cough come back over the radio.
Tasker watched as the cops moved forward, forcing the crowd away from the building out onto the run-down baseball diamond. After twenty minutes of a decent wind caused by the threatening storm, Tasker and his group removed their masks. The cloud of gas had blown over a few blocks and dissipated. The crowd was still feisty, and after taking another minute to shake off the effects of the tear gas, they started to surge toward the other field force at the far end of the ball field. Tasker saw a gas grenade launched from the other field force, then another and another. Two landed in the middle of the crowd, scattering people; the third came close to Tasker’s team. A radio crackled, “Hey, Vinnie, we just launched some gas. Sorry.” Payback was a bitch.
Just then the clouds opened, first with a mist then a torrent, scattering the crowd better than any tear gas ever could.
THE Reverend Al Watson felt giddy. That was the only word to describe the emotion he was experiencing driving south away from his former office. He patted the satchel of cash at his side and giggled. Not only had he bluffed his way out of a dangerous spot, he had Cole Hodges’s share of the cash and had put that uppity shyster in his place. Maybe God did favor him. He’d spouted that Baptist bullshit for so long maybe God was just showing his appreciation.
At the red light between Tiger Tail and Bird Road, Watson looked in the rearview mirror to check his tight hair. There was no doubt he was one of the beautiful people, and now he was a rich beautiful person. He deserved it. He smiled at himself in the mirror and noticed a car behind him. On a second look, he realized the car had no driver. As he looked out the windshield, he caught a glimpse of a large black revolver pointed at his head from the side window. He heard a tap on the window and slowly reached down and touched the power window button.
“May I help you, friend?” Watson asked, with a noticeable shake in his voice. He was too scared to stomp on the gas.
“Yes, Reverend. I need your satchel.”
The heavy white man looked familiar. “Do I know you, friend?” asked Watson, never looking directly at the barrel of the gun.
“Tom Dooley, FBI, and I’m gonna need your cash.”
Watson’s voice cracked. “Can we work this out, friend?”
“No,” Dooley said.
Watson didn’t even hear the gunfire, everything just went blank.
SEVEN
BILL Tasker’s body felt dull, that was the only way to describe it. He’d been on continuous duty for nearly sixty-five hours, and if that line of thunderstorms hadn’t moved over the city he’d still be watching the rooftops for Miami PD. Now, in front of the Miami FDLE office, Tasker and the remaining members of the special operations team were breaking down their equipment and preparing for one long weekend. Someone had already cracked a case of Icehouse and started exaggerating th
e exploits of the team. Tasker focused on ensuring no tear gas residue remained on his gear bag or clothes. His eyes still watered a little, but his sinuses would be clear for at least a month. He had no idea his head could produce that much snot. If the general public found out the hidden benefits of tear gas, cops would never be able to buy it cheap again. Luckily, the two field forces gassing each other had also managed to gas some of the rioters so no one had taken advantage of the coughing, hacking cops. It was still embarrassing. The rain had been the biggest factor in breaking up the crowds, no matter what some of the team members were saying now.
Other FDLE agents were arriving from their various assignments throughout the city. Most had been able to nap for a few hours and grab some decent food, making them more active and talkative than the special ops team members, who’d had no respite. Tasker ignored the new arrivals until he heard the soft voice of Tina Wiggins behind him. He twisted to see her standing, like a model just off the cover of Glamour.
“There he is,” she said to an older agent standing with her. “He’s cute in black.”
The male agent said, “How’d it go? We heard Steve Pape got hit. How is he?”
Tasker, turning to stand and face them, said, “Clean wound through the arm. Lost some blood, but he’ll be okay. He’ll be braggin’ about the scar and telling people he stormed the crowd alone in no time.”
“Did you get the bastard who shot him?”
“Yeah, just some crazed crackhead with a lever-action hunting rifle.”
The man smiled. “How many times you guys plug him?”
Tasker shrugged. “None. Not for lack of effort. The cops and us did forty-six thousand bucks’ damage with return fire to the building he was hiding on.”
Tina cut in, “I wouldn’t worry about it. There was a lot worse damage on Miami Avenue and out Twentieth.”
Tasker said, “Like what?”
“Six big fires gutted a couple of apartment buildings, about fifty stores were looted, forty houses were destroyed and a bank in Overtown was hit pretty good.”
“How many dead?”
“So far only three. A lot of injuries, one little girl was hit with a stray bullet but she’ll live. Six cops, including Steve, were hurt. Overall, the city weathered it pretty well.”
Her dark, perfect lips had a hypnotic effect on Tasker. He gazed at the ends of her straight white teeth, framed by those lips, and lost track of where he was. It was through this fog he heard her.
“Bill? Bill, you okay?” She reached up and shook his shoulder.
“Yeah, yeah, just tired.” His eyes focused. “Which bank got hit?”
Tina said, “I think Alpha National of Overtown. They killed the manager and rummaged through a half dozen safe-deposit boxes.”
Tasker thought about his desire to surveil the bank before the riot. Too bad he wasn’t there with the team when it happened. Things never worked out perfectly.
Tina continued, “We heard one of the boxes that got hit belonged to the CCR’s treasurer, Cole Hodges.” Her eyes lit up. “Lots of cash there, I bet.”
Tasker looked at her. “How do you know it had cash?”
“Everyone knows the CCR probably has ten boxes hidden all over Miami.” She looked off toward the city to the east. “Just one would be nice.”
TINA stayed and helped Tasker put up the last of his gear, unloading his AR-15, brushing off dust and tear gas from his vest, chatting with him about her first riot experience. Her brown eyes seemed to wrap around him and squeeze tight.
“This wasn’t so bad. Since I spent most of my time watching the riots from the top of a condo, it was more like a TV show than an actual disaster.”
Tasker said, “I would have been happy to trade for your intel duty.”
“You SWAT guys like that kind of tactical stuff.”
“I used to like tactical stuff more. Now I do it because it has to be done. I prefer more cooperative crooks, the kind that surrender or confess. Maybe I’m lazy.”
“I just thought you were easygoing.”
“I’ve heard that I’m too easygoing.”
She smiled, appraising him as she said, “I wouldn’t worry about it. I see a lot of the guys from the south handle things the easy way, just like the former New York cops here come down hard on everyone. It’s a cultural thing.”
“You think?”
“Sure. South Florida is one of those few places where half the cops are from up north and the other half natives. You can really see the mix. In New York, it’s standard to jump into someone’s business; down here we let things develop. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
He nodded, almost telling her about what being laid-back had done to him. He knew she’d heard all the stories and rumors about the incident, but he wanted her to hear the truth from him, and decided that now was not the time. Instead he changed the subject.
“Got any plans for your four days of comp leave?”
“My sister and I are going to go diving.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister down here. Thought your family lived in central Florida.”
“They do, except Jeanie goes to FIU.”
“What’s she studying?”
“She wants to be a teacher. But right now she’s a dancer at Pure Platinum and doesn’t want to give up the money.”
Tasker stared at her in silence. Was she pulling his chain? Had he not understood?
Tina said, “That’s right. She strips at Pure Platinum. You’re the only one at FDLE I ever told. Hope you can keep a secret.”
“Yeah, I...I can.”
She kissed him on the lips. “Good, so can I.”
TOM Dooley chuckled every time one of his fellow ace FBI special agents walked past his desk. The clueless bastards had no idea his entire lower file drawer was stuffed with money. He’d hidden the Reverend Watson’s satchelful of cash the last place anyone would ever look for it: the Miami office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. All the years of being ignored by the other agents made this all the sweeter. In a few days, he’d figure what to do with the cash and then slide out on retirement. No one would ever notice the spending money he’d have. He could virtually disappear. Only need a PO box for his government check.
He sat at his desk in the bay that was his permanent assignment. There were eight other agents with desks in the open office that was actually a big opening in the main hallway. He had dividers on either side of his desk and a small, issued file cabinet to the right. On the wall were four of his citations for bravery and three photos of his son. One was of his soccer team, with Dooley as the dutiful coach standing to the side of the youngsters. Dooley liked to gaze up at that photo all the time. Coaching those kids was something he was proud of, that didn’t remind him of his darker ambitions. He left the photo on this wall no matter where he worked.
His supervisor had sent him to the robbery task force because some of the other agents had bitched about him. It kept him out of sight. But now he liked hanging out in his regular office. He’d heard that the Bureau was looking into the robbery of the Overtown bank. Originally they’d thought it was looters, but something had clued them in to a more specific crime. Dooley knew that if he stayed at his desk long enough he’d pick up some scoop and get an idea what was going on.
It had taken a few hours, but finally Dooley heard two of the younger guys talk about the bank. The lead agent was some kind of Mideasterner, or maybe even an Oriental, named Slayda Nmir but he liked to be called “Mac.” Who could figure? The slim, dark, neatly groomed thirty-year-old looked more like a hairstylist than a Fed, and he’d clearly never cared for Dooley, but that didn’t stop Dooley from barreling into a conversation with him.
“Hey, Mac. What’s doing?” Dooley asked, sliding up to the desk the man was working at.
Mac looked up through rimless oval glasses. “Got the robbery at the Alpha National in Overtown.”
“Yeah? Rioters loot it?”
“Don’t think so. Looks like on
e robber, and he killed the manager.”
“No shit. Any leads?”
“A few.”
“What about the security cameras?”
“Have you ever seen the banks over there? The only cameras are focused on the tellers, and they only work once in a while.”
“The robber get much?”
Nmir looked Dooley over before he answered. “Only a half-dozen safe-deposit boxes were popped. One belonged to Cole Hodges and Al Watson. Watson’s gone missing. A witness said he’s seen a cop hanging around the bank so we’re looking into that, too.”
“A cop? How’d he know it was a cop?” Dooley swallowed hard, as a wave of adrenaline swept through him. Had he fucked up this bad?
Nmir hesitated, then said, “He’s a crackhead. Remembers a white Buick but says all cops look alike to him. The cop said he’d hurt him if he didn’t move on.” His dark eyes stayed on Dooley, unnerving him.
Dooley had been around too long to panic. He knew more about being calm in the face of catastrophe than this dark-gened, curry-eating, perfume-wearing little son of a whore would ever know. Was he looking at Dooley with suspicion? Dooley doubted it. His mind raced as he considered his options. He took a breath as he saw a chance. An idea that could only have come from God slipped into his head. It was so perfect he had to move without going over it in his head. He could buy some time and put the suspicion off him with just a casual comment.
He said, “I know a cop who was mighty interested in that particular bank.”
Mac said, “Come on, Dooley, I don’t have time for any of your games.”
“No kidding. A cop on my task force seemed obsessed with that bank. He even wanted to do his own surveillances there. Even after I canceled the idea.”
“Who is this guy?”
“An FDLE agent named Tasker, Bill Tasker. And he’s even got a Buick the Bureau gave him for the task force.”
“Is he reasonable? I mean, you think I could talk to him about this just to clear things up?”
Walking Money Page 6
