Do or Die Reluctant Heroes

by Unknown

  “You have enough towels in there?” Martell asked.

  She glanced in and saw that there were plenty, in a pile on the back of the toilet. “I’m good,” she told him. “I’m okay.”

  The way he was looking at her, she knew that he didn’t believe her. And the truth was, she didn’t quite believe herself. But he nodded and accepted her version of reality. “You need anything, just let me know.”

  Again, those weren’t just words. He meant what he said.

  “Make Berto believe it,” Francine said. “You and me? I need him to believe it.”

  Martell nodded, as serious and determined as if she’d asked him to find and bring her the Holy Grail. “Consider it done.”

  “You can start by adding condoms to Yashi’s list,” she said.

  “Good idea,” he said. “Hashtag extra large.” He smiled back at her. “Trust me, I got this.”

  “Thank you,” Francine said, and finally closed the door. When she looked into the mirror, she was still smiling—and even though her eyes were still red, she didn’t look half as awful as she’d imagined.

  * * *

  Ian opened the trunk carefully. For all he knew, Francine and Martell had missed a weapon, but the man in there was cuffed and had been stripped down to his underwear. The only thing he threw at Ian was a baleful look.

  “I feel like I should say something pithy here,” Ian said. “Like, Monsieur Dellarosa, so we meet at last.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Berto said.

  “Are you fucking kidding me works,” Ian told him, reaching in to unlock the cuffs. “It sums it up just about perfectly, from my end, too. The FBI and their crazy brothers and sisters who are closer to A on the alphabet agency scale pulled me out of jail in a Hail Mary move, to help them find some very important missing kids. I didn’t want it, I didn’t ask for it, and I certainly didn’t make a deal for it, but there it is. My unexpected freedom has nothing to do with you or your family. How’s Manny, by the way?”

  Berto blinked at his sudden change of subject. “He’s fine.”

  “Is he? Because if he’s on life support, with a priest standing by, that would be good to know. My deal was with Manny, not Davio.”

  “No, he’s really okay,” Berto said, rubbing his wrists. “He’s in the hospital for tests.”

  “That sounds like bullshit,” Ian said. “I’ll ask you about him again, after we agree to a detente.”

  “My agreement—to anything—depends on your terms.” Berto said.

  Ian gave him a hand, helping him out of the trunk. “My terms are pretty simple. You help me with this job, earn some cash, and gain a few good karma points in the process. When it’s over, we push the reset button, and I go back to prison and finish serving my time, according to my deal with Manny.”

  He had yet to arrange that detail with the FBI, but he was certain that that esteemed organization would have no trouble coming up with a feasible reason for him to go back to Northport, when everything was said and done.

  It had come to him, a few hours ago. Manny and Berto had no idea why Ian was out of prison. And since they didn’t know that his release was permanent, it didn’t have to be.

  If the FBI could pull him out of jail, they could certainly put him back inside. Doing so would reactivate his deal with the Dellarosas. Manny and Berto would keep Davio in line.

  He hoped.

  “I know you’ve been working closely with Manny,” Ian told Berto, “and that you and your uncle have both been juggling furiously, to counterbalance your father’s … bad choices, shall we say.”

  Berto didn’t respond, but Ian knew he was listening.

  He handed Berto his shoes and clothes as he quickly outlined the FBI’s assignment to steal back the kidnapped children from the Dutchman.

  “I know you have both a fleet of trucks and a series of warehouses across the state,” Ian told Berto as the man got dressed. “I want to pay you, for use of both. Plus, your presence adds a certain authenticity. The Dutchman already knows Davio’s after me.”

  “And how do you know I’m not just going to kill your brother?” Berto asked. “When I have the chance?”

  “I don’t,” Ian admitted. “But I suspect you’re not a threat since you’ve risked your father’s wrath many times these past years, to save Aaron and Sheldon—although really, it’s always been about Francine, hasn’t it?”

  Berto didn’t so much as blink. But then he asked the question Ian was hoping he’d ask. “How much are you going to pay me?”

  “Enough to make you shake my hand,” Ian said, and indeed, when he told Berto the dollar amount, they then shook. With their hands still clasped, he asked again, “How’s Manny?”

  “He’s fine,” Berto said again. “I went into the hospital see him just this morning. He’s up and around. He’s old, but he’s tough.”

  “Good,” Ian said.

  And with that done, the rest was easy.

  At least it should have been. It would’ve been.

  Before funny, quirky, perfect Phoebe Kruger had walked into Ian’s life, and made him long for the impossible.

  * * *

  “I need a high-speed luxury yacht,” Ian said, “with at least three private bedrooms, and enough space down below to hold cargo. It’s gotta have a cruising speed of at least 35 knots. I need a secluded, private dock, south of Miami, with access for an eighteen-wheeler. Oh, and I’m gonna need both the TSA and the Coast Guard to make themselves scarce for around twelve hours.”

  Yashi actually laughed out loud.

  Phoebe was in the living room in the Miami safe house, one of a diverse group that included an ex-con Navy SEAL, two FBI agents, two lawyers, and a mobster. It almost felt like the setup to some terrible joke. Walked into a bar … Except these eclectic nine individuals were working together, as Ian put it, on a “short-term, relatively low-risk, high-yield con” that would result in the return of the two kidnapped children. No joke. No breaking in, no clandestine rescue, no violence, no gunfire, either.

  At least none that was real. Or so Ian promised.

  His plan was to convince Georg Vanderzee, AKA the Dutchman, that Ian had a quick, easy, foolproof way to smuggle contraband—of any type, human included—out of the country. At which point, at least according to theory, the Dutchman would enlist Ian’s aid in moving those children. He would, quite literally, hand them over.

  But the con wouldn’t work unless they made it look real. All of it. Down to the minute details.

  Because of that need for accuracy and precision, they were all present at this meeting, despite the late hour.

  Even Sheldon had been woken up and dragged from his bed. He sat on the sofa wearing only a pair of blue plaid pajama pants. His hair was standing straight up, and his arms were folded across his movie-star-worthy pecs.

  Francine was next to him, sitting so close to Martell that she was almost on the man’s lap, his arm around her shoulders, their legs intertwined. Apparently, they’d made a connection. Or maybe it was for show, for Berto’s sake. Phoebe wasn’t sure. But the softness in Martell’s eyes as he smiled at Francine didn’t seem make-believe.

  She herself sat on Martell’s other side, with Aaron sprawled in the easy chair next to her, intentionally and grimly not looking at his half-naked husband. And that was a clue that, despite their private time together, nothing had been resolved.

  Yashi and Deb were sharing the love seat—ever the consummate professionals.

  Berto—who’d been given back his clothes after he’d done his little one-on-one with Ian and apparently struck a deal to help them with this mission—was across from them and on edge, because of his proximity to the FBI.

  Ian was next to Berto, but he’d pulled over one of the stools from the kitchen counter, which, as he sat on it, put him up on a higher level than the rest of them.

  Phoebe was certain that that was not by mistake.

  Ian was undaunted by Yashi’s laughter. “I know you can do it,
so don’t pretend that you can’t.” He looked at Sheldon. “It takes approximately four hours, by boat, to get from south Florida to certain parts of Cuba. But of course we’re not going to go there, we’re only going to make Vanderzee think that we did. So, we’ll need a mapped-out nautical route, heading south, but then turning back toward a second, even more secluded dock, somewhere else in Florida—within easy driving range of Miami for those in the surveillance van. But we’ll want to be on the open sea for nearly four full hours.”

  Sheldon sat up, engaged. “We’ll need the yacht’s computer compass to say we’re heading south for the entire trip. I can definitely do that. And north for the return. I’m assuming there’ll be a return …?”

  “There will be,” Ian confirmed. “We’re going to fool Vanderzee into believing that we took him to Cuba, and then back to the original dock south of Miami.”

  “We’ll need smartphones with doctored GPS, too,” Sheldon said.

  Yashi was making a procurement list, and he looked to Ian for confirmation.

  Ian nodded. “You can get that info from Shel—what he wants to work with,” he told the FBI agent.

  “If we’re just going to be out on the ocean for four hours,” Yashi pointed out, “twice, neither the Coast Guard or TSA’s gonna care.” He made a note on his pad. “But I’ll make sure we’re left alone.”

  “But when we’re at the second dock,” Ian said. “The one that’s going to be our fake Cuba …”

  “We won’t want any U.S. agencies nearby,” Yashi said. “Got it. No signage, nothing that says we’re still in the States, either. I’ll also clear the airspace, so we don’t have some Cessna pulling a sign advertising Miami Jack’s Shrimp Shack flying overhead.”

  “Hopefully, we’ll have this timed so we’re only there at oh dark hundred,” Ian said. “Both when we arrive and depart. But yes. It’s good to be prepared.” He kept going. “We’ll need a cargo van or truck, possibly two, beat-up, with Cuban plates.” He looked around at them, as if counting heads. “I need black clothes for everyone on Team Ian, which is going to be me, Phoebe, Aaron.”

  Aaron sat up. “Holy shit. I get to play?”

  “Yeah,” Ian told his brother. “I hate it, but since Pheeb’s playing, too …” He glanced at her. “With Berto’s help, this mission is going to be as low-risk as possible. No one is going to be alone with the Dutchman—not even for a second. We’ll be working in groups. And you’ll stay with your group, you’ll stay on script, no improvising, no coloring outside of the lines.” He looked at Phoebe again. “Since you’re the least experienced person here, you and I will go over your role, extensively, later tonight.”

  Francine noisily cleared her throat, and Phoebe shot her a look, feeling heat rising in her face. Ian’s eyes narrowed—he didn’t know that Francine had done the Ian-plus-Phoebe-equals-hot-hookup math. Or … maybe he did. It was hard to imagine anything getting past him. But he’d already turned back to Yashi and continued with his list.

  “Black clothes for me, Phoebe, Aaron,” Ian said again. “They’ve gotta be lightweight, including masks. I don’t want anyone overheating—we’re going to be moving boxes and it’s going to get hot. Phoebe and I will also need a variety of other clothing, including yachting wear, whatever that is—head to toe, nothing too fancy, but do make us shine—and a nice overnight bag to put it in. Leather. Remember, my character”—another glance at Phoebe—“has money.”

  “Check,” Yashi said.

  “I need rent-a-cop security guard uniforms for Martell and for you, Yash. And a coupla burlap sacks to put over your heads.”

  “Oh, that’s gonna be fun,” Martell murmured. “I can’t wait to find out why.”

  “We’re going to need ammo—and blanks,” Ian continued. “Along with special-effect blood packs, and the blood to go in ’em.”

  Francine perked up at that. “Please tell me we’re killing Phoebe.”

  “What?” Phoebe asked, half laughing, half perplexed.

  “Not for real,” Francine explained with her usual disdain. “But we can use plastic bags of fake blood to make it look—realistically—as if someone’s been killed. And since Ian doesn’t want you participating in this job, and I agree—your lack of experience could get us all really killed—I thought …”

  But Ian was shaking his head. “I thought about that, too, but no. If Phoebe were dead, my character would have no reason not to stay in Cuba. We have to maintain a balance. Create urgency, but not cross into tragedy.

  “So here’s what’s going to happen: Berto’s going to be already badly injured when Phoebe, Aaron, and I arrive at the warehouse with the Dutchman. We’ll be coming to pick up the contraband, but we’ll discover that Berto interrupted a robbery attempt—which emphasizes the fact that this shipment is hot, that we need to get it out of Miami, now, or it’ll be taken from us. Two of Berto’s guards will be tied up—one will already be dead, killed by the robbers who’ve made their escape, but they might be coming back with reinforcements, so go, go, go, load those boxes into the truck. It’s the reason we need to move fast. I’ll kill the surviving guard over his failure to protect Berto—proof that I’m both serious and deadly, plus this makes Vanderzee an accomplice to murder, simply by being in the room. For someone with his psychological makeup, the fact that blood’s been spilled makes him less likely to bail. So. We leave with the goods—drugs or guns—head for the dock and the yacht and our trip to Cuba, while Berto stays behind to get medical aid. After we return to the States, I’ll receive the terrible news that he died of his injuries. Which now means that Davio’s going to come after me even harder. And that provides the urgency we’ll need to convince Vanderzee that if he wants to move those kids, he’ll have to do it right away—now or never—because Phoebe and I have decided it’s time to flee the country, that we’re taking our yacht, and this time we’ll stay in Cuba.”

  “So we’re essentially putting on a show, a play, for Georg Vanderzee,” Phoebe realized.

  “You could say that,” Ian told her, turning back to Yashi. “Martell will need tropical wear,” he continued. “Casual clothes, but don’t make it cheap—Hawaiian shirt, linen pants. And military garb for the rest of Team Martell.”

  “Ooh, I get a team, too,” Martell said. “And that’s why I wear a bag on my head as the security guard—so Vanderzee doesn’t recognize me when we get to Faux Cuba.”

  “Yes. You’re my Cuban partner,” Ian told him. “American expat, so don’t try to fake an accent—that never works. Like me, you’re richer than God. You’ve got an infallible connection to your new country’s government, and everyone looks the other way when American yachts—and their cargos—arrive and depart from your private dock. Your minions are Francine, Sheldon, Yashi.” He pointed at them. “France, you’re his kickass security chief”—he turned back to Yashi—“so extra heavy with the weaponry for her, although I do want everyone armed.”

  Ian smiled at the other FBI agent. “Deb, sorry, but I want you with us on the yacht, in case there’s trouble with the Coast Guard. You’re our stewardess.”

  “Of course I am,” she said with a sigh. “I can’t be the captain?”

  “Sorry, no. When you’re getting her clothes, think high-class hooker,” Ian told Yashi, and when Deb made an exasperated sound, he added, “Vanderzee won’t expect you to be a black belt if you’re wearing heels.”

  “I know, I know.” Deb looked over at Yashi’s extensive notes and made a disbelieving face at him. “Did you really just write sideboob?”

  “I did,” he admitted, looking back at Ian. “What else?”

  “Cash,” Ian said. “A twenty-K packet, a ten-K packet, and a briefcase with five million—obviously that can be mostly newspaper. But I want it to weigh what it needs to weigh, so don’t take shortcuts. Dollars or Euros, doesn’t matter which. I’ll let that be your choice. And drugs or guns for our contraband. I’d prefer drugs—specifically meth—it’s hot, and there’s a market for U.S. product in E
astern Europe. Plus, it doesn’t weigh as much as AKs or ARs. Remember, we’re going to have to lift this shit—and it’ll slow our speedboat down. Also, if it’s guns, I’m going to need them crated and moved into Berto’s warehouse before tomorrow night, which could be problematic.”

  “You think?” Berto said.

  “If it’s drugs,” Ian continued, “we’ll be hiding them inside of electronics—desktop computer towers—which are already in the Dellarosa warehouse. So all I’ll need is a big enough bag of meth for show-and-tell with the Dutchman. But again, your choice. Oxycontin works, too. However, I will need to know in advance—by tomorrow morning—exactly what our contraband is going to be.”

  “Yeah,” Yashi said. “And I kinda caught that tomorrow night that you mentioned, too?”

  “This has to go down tomorrow night,” Ian told them. “Davio—Berto’s father—is gonna be up in Sarasota, at the hospital, at a meeting with Manny that he is not going to miss. I don’t want him anywhere near this, so we’re doing it then. Plus, I want this job over and done ASAP—and I’m sure those kids want to be back with their mother sooner rather than later, too.”

  “We can do this,” Deb said confidently. “And I’m sure we can get you the drugs—so let’s make it drugs, not guns.” She frowned down at Yashi’s notepad. “How about a truck or some kind of vehicle on this end? To get the illegal goods from Berto’s warehouse to the departing airfield?”

  “The electronics are not illegal,” Berto was quick to say. “I purchased, legally, an overstock from a regional chain of stores being downsized—”

  “But the Dutchman’s not going to know that,” Francie said. “Will you just relax? We’re all on the same side here. No one’s going to arrest you.”

  “I’m renting a truck from Berto,” Ian told them. “He’s got a fleet of semis—”

  “All legal,” Berto pointed out, and Francine rolled her eyes.

  “I want the truck for the Miami warehouse pickup to be big—an eighteen-wheeler,” Ian told them. “I want it to be more than just a van or a rinky-dink U-Haul. This truck is part of what we’re selling to the Dutchman.”