Shock Wave

by James O. Born

Tasker was a little nervous. He made sure he could see Derrick Sutter sitting in his Buick Century about five rows over in a line of parked cars. Camy and Jimmy Lail were on the other side of him, about the same distance away. There were five other ATF agents strategically placed in the lot. He felt well protected.

  Tasker was still pissed off over Bolini’s comments. He’d beaten the allegations and exposed an FBI agent as the real bank robber, but some people just didn’t want to believe it. Even now, two months later, there were people who thought Tasker had been partners with Tom Dooley. That was ridiculous. Tasker hadn’t been able to stand that racist loudmouth even before he’d been framed by him. Bolini seemed like he came from the same mold. That FBI mentality of superiority died hard. His Nextel beeped. Camy Parks’ voice floated through. “Billy, Dashett is a minute out.”

  Tasker waved to her and cut off the speaker on his phone. He rechecked his little Sig.380 hidden in the seat, and waited.

  Bernie Dashett pulled into the lot and right to Tasker, like he had no doubts.

  “Hey ya, Willie,” he said, hopping out of his truck and walking over to Tasker.

  “Bernie, it’s too hot out here, let’s jump in my Suburban to talk.” Without a word, Bernie moved to the side of the Suburban, climbed in the high vehicle and settled into the cool seats.

  “This is nice, Willie,” he said, running his hands over the leather.

  “Yeah, I like it.” He paused and checked the mirror to see at least two cover cars in position. “What’d we decide on again?”

  “You mean on a price?”

  “Yeah.” Tasker wanted Bernie to do most of the talking on the tape.

  “You said sixty-five.”

  “That gets the whole thing?”

  “There’s only the one.”

  Tasker played stupid. “One what?”

  “Stinger, or whatever you call it. I never checked the manufacturer like you wanted.”

  Tasker smiled. “That’s okay. You got it with you, right?”

  “Yeah. C’mon, have a look.”

  Tasker slid out of the high SUV and waited a second while Bernie went to his truck. Tasker wanted the cover surveillance to see him and realize the deal was close. He let Bernie root around in the bed of the truck and then walked over to it.

  “Here she is,” said Bernie, looking down at the five-foot missile in the bed of the truck.

  Tasker stared at it for a minute. This had been the easiest case he’d ever put together. “Looks like we’re good to go,” said Tasker, as he stretched his arms over his head. He gave both the verbal and visual signals for the arrest team, then moved to the other side of the truck.

  The team moved perfectly. Two cars were almost on top of Bernie Dashett before he even noticed them. Sutter calmly opened his door and pointed his Glock at Bernie.

  “Police, don’t move,” he said, calmly and professionally.

  One second later, Camy came out of her Crown Vic, and Jimmy Lail squealed the tires of his little black Honda, burst out of the door and started screaming, “On the ground, be-autch!” Holding his gun sideways, he shuffled up to Bernie, pointing the gun at his head, still sideways and said again, “On the ground, be-autch.”

  Be-autch? Oh, God, it was that gangsta talk again. Bitch. He meant bitch. Tasker shook his head.

  After Bernie Dashett was cuffed and in the back of a car, Camy Parks came up to Tasker. “One of the FBI guys saw where he got the missile.”

  “No shit?”

  “Saw the exchange plain as day. Over in Naranja, not far at all.”

  “Let’s go,” said Tasker, jumping into the Suburban.

  five

  Jim Cobb had been an FBI agent for nearly four years, the whole time stuck down here in Miami, following different suspects as part of the SOG, or Special Operations Group. What sounded like a great assignment had turned into the most monotonous, mind-numbing task ever invented. All he did, with a squad of other agents, was follow people. No arrests. No investigation. Just surveillance. Following people running errands, meeting other mopes and mainly going about their lives-while he wasted his. Now he was doing the same thing. Watching this guy who just gave a missile to the main suspect, Bernie Dashett, while everyone else got to kick ass and take names.

  Cobb heard over the radio that the deal had just gone down. He knew the arrest team would be over here in the next few minutes and decided he needed to do something to make a name for himself. He could see the guy who’d handed off the missile, wandering in and out of a small, detached garage. If he pulled up nice and easy to the street, he could cut across the yard and get the drop on the man before he even knew anyone was on the property.

  As Cobb watched the man move around, he couldn’t resist the urge to jump in and make the arrest. His bosses might be so impressed they’d bump him over to counterterrorism or some other high-profile assignment. He’d have to come up with a reason why he’d acted alone. He thought about it and decided that he could always say it looked like the man was about to drive away. That’s why he’d made the arrest without backup.

  Cobb checked the black belly bag that held his Glock model 23. He unzipped it and checked the compact.40-caliber pistol. He pulled a set of handcuffs off the car’s brake release, where he always stored two sets. Putting the car in drive, he eased off the curve and slowly headed right for the house. He could feel his heart rate climb. This was only his fourth actual arrest where the defendant hadn’t surrendered at the U.S. Marshals’ office at the courthouse.

  He parked the car casually without squealing the tires or turning on his blue light. That was a little disappointing, but he knew he had to keep it calm. He stepped out of the car and then up the slight slope of the side yard to the carport. His hand was shaking as he unzipped his pouch and slowly drew his Glock. He kept his eyes on the door to the garage and started to creep toward it.

  Just as he got to the door, he heard someone say, “Excuse me, can I help you?”

  Cobb spun to see the man he had been watching standing at the rear of the garage. He must have walked out the other side while Cobb made his way over.

  Cobb raised his gun and placed the sights at the center mass of the man, right at his chest. “FBI, on the ground.” The man looked stunned, so Cobb added, “Now!”

  The man complied, falling straight to the hard cement floor of the carport with his arms naturally splaying out. Cobb knew he just had to wait till the troops arrived. He was gonna be a star.

  By the time Tasker and the others arrived at the house in Naranja, an FBI agent already had the homeowner in custody.

  Tasker walked up to the little detached garage. “What’s the scoop?” he asked the lone FBI man standing next to a cuffed man on the ground.

  “I’m Cobb, FBI. Didn’t want to risk this guy giving us the slip, so I nabbed him.”

  “You sure he gave Dashett the package?”

  “Saw it myself. Into the bed of the truck.”

  Tasker nodded. He turned to the man on his stomach with his hands secured behind his back and asked, “What’s your name?”

  The man was obviously angry. “Daniel Wells.”

  “Okay, Dan…”

  “The name is Daniel.”

  Tasker shrugged. “Okay, Daniel, you wanna tell us what’s going on?”

  “I think you need to tell me.” His face changed different shades of red as he spoke.

  Cobb said, “We don’t have to tell you shit.”

  Veins popped out in the man’s head. “I tell ya, I got nothing to do with this. You’ve got the wrong man.”

  Cobb snickered. “Yeah, I heard that before. But at least you admit something is goin’ on.”

  Wells, in cuffs, twisted his head toward Tasker, apparently looking for a more reasonable person. “This is wrong. This man says I gave someone a missile. I’ve never even seen a missile.”

  Cobb answered before Tasker could say anything. “It doesn’t matter if you ever saw a missile or not. I have. Today, about twenty
minutes ago. You fucking gave it to the redneck in the exterminating truck.”

  “Bernie Dashett? I didn’t give him a missile.” His face was now into stages of purple and he looked close to the edge.

  Now Tasker squatted next to the man. “Catch your breath there, Daniel.” He patted him on the back. “Why was Bernie Dashett over here?”

  Before he could explain, a blond woman with a little girl in her arms and a boy about six came out of the house.

  “What’s going on?” She looked to Wells on the ground.

  Cobb, the FBI agent barked, “Shut up or you’ll be in cuffs, too.”

  She stared at him.

  He added, “And your kids will go to Child Services.”

  Tasker saw Camy and Sutter arriving. “Let’s calm down and we’ll sort this mess out.”

  Cobb said, “Nothing to sort out. I saw the exchange, and this guy”-he kicked Wells in the leg-“is listed as an associate to a domestic terror group.”

  Tasker nodded. If the man on the ground was a terrorist and they’d gotten a missile from him, they were doing all right.

  Tasker asked the young FBI agent, “How do you know about the terror link?”

  “I called the address into our office while I waited for the deal. They came up with his name and then a photo of him at some white supremacist summit at a restaurant.”

  Tasker looked at the FBI man, then down at the handcuffed prisoner. Cobb added, “Besides, he’s under arrest. Let’s get him to the Marshals and sort this out after we eat.”

  Jimmy Lail bopped up from his souped-up Honda and said, “All right, dawg.” Camy gave Tasker a hug and he started to feel pretty good until he noticed the sobbing wife and kids by the back door, watching the still-protesting Wells being dragged to a waiting FBI vehicle.

  six

  The phone kept ringing even after Bill Tasker woke up, making him realize it wasn’t a dream. He reached across to the nightstand and fumbled with the receiver.

  “Hello.” He sounded like an old frog with throat cancer.

  “Long night?” asked a female.

  “Kinda.” He waited to identify the voice, then realized it had to be his ex-wife, Donna. “What’s up? The girls okay?”

  “Just making sure you remembered I was dropping them off about six.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “How’s everything with you?”

  Tasker wanted to make a comment about her recent reversal on their relationship, but let it slide. “Good, good. Made a big case yesterday. I bought an air-to-air missile.”

  Donna said, “Wow, that is big. I saw in the Post that the FBI bought one, too. Are there that many floating around?”

  “Where’d the FBI do it?”

  “ Cutler Ridge.”

  The FBI had started their normal bullshit again.

  Tasker joined Sutter in a booth at the Denny’s on Thirty-sixth Street. Sutter always tried to eat in the city. It gave him a sense of security to be in his town, or at least that is what he said. Tasker just figured he liked the half-priced meals.

  “You see the news?” asked Tasker.

  Sutter, his eyes still at half-mast, said calmly, “Big deal. They stole the credit, what else is new?”

  “Doesn’t it piss you off?”

  “Did they frame you for any crime?”

  “No.”

  “Did any of them shoot me?”

  “No.”

  “Then we’re doing better than our last case with them.” He sipped his coffee. “I’m more interested in that fine little ATF girl, Camilla Parker Bowles.”

  “I wouldn’t call her that. She hates that nickname, and if you don’t believe me, just look at Lail’s eye. He only called her ‘Princess.’ ”

  “She could smack me any old time.” Sutter laughed at his own comment and nodded his head like he was imagining the lovely Camy Parks punishing him.

  “I know you’re God’s gift to ladies, but she might be interested in a different type.” Tasker didn’t want to go into it any further, but he didn’t want his friend to waste his time, either.

  “I know she’s supposed to play in the all-girl league, but I think I could convert her.” He paused, then slapped his friend on the back, apparently sensing the concern that was overtaking him about the FBI. “Cheer up, Billy. We’re heroes, even if nobody knows it.”

  Tasker smiled at that thought until he pictured Wells’ kids crying as they took him away yesterday.

  …

  That evening, after a day of congratulations and paperwork at the office, Tasker relaxed at his Kendall town house, waiting for the girls to arrive. He planned to work only a couple of hours tomorrow, then spend the whole weekend with them. This teachers’ planning day would give them time to just kick back before he took them to the little beach at Biscayne Bay, or maybe to the Monkey Jungle.

  Without knocking, Donna popped her head in the front door, followed closely by the girls.

  “You decent?”

  Tasker avoided the obvious comeback.

  After the hugs all around and settling the girls in their room, Tasker and Donna walked out onto the patio together.

  “You look great,” said Donna.

  “Having a normal schedule and less stress helps.”

  “No more problems from that FBI case?”

  “No, pretty much people act like it never happened, which is fine.”

  She paused and looked him in the eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve screwed with your emotions. I didn’t mean to.”

  He gave her a flat stare. “You mean leading me to believe we were getting back together was an accident?”

  “No. I mean yes.” She gathered her thoughts. “You were just so down and I was in a different place.”

  “What place was that?”

  “Billy, don’t be like that. We have a good relationship now. Let’s not blow that.”

  “We had a good relationship four years ago. Now we skirt all issues and hand the girls back and forth like a hot plate.”

  “What issues do we have now?”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  She stared at him. “My feelings for Nicky don’t really affect us.”

  “Unless you hate him, your feelings don’t help us, either.”

  “I don’t hate him, but I do have feelings for him. Everything’ll work out, Billy. You’re a good-looking guy and have a good job. You’re a catch.”

  He smiled and nodded his head. “Thanks.”

  She leaned in and hugged him. “It really is good to see your life back on track. How’re your folks?”

  “Good. I’d send them a newspaper about this case if FDLE were even mentioned.”

  “I remember you being media-shy not too long ago.”

  He remembered how he’d been scrutinized by the press then, and suddenly felt better about not being in the papers now.

  Bernie Dashett sat in one of the interview rooms of the Metropolitan Correction Center southwest of Miami, listening to this attorney his mama had hired for him. He wasn’t sure there was much he could do, since he really was guilty of trying to sell the missile.

  He looked across at the twenty-five-year-old Reynaldo Hirsh, as the young man ran his hand over his slicked-back hair for the sixth time in the last five minutes.

  The tiny room had just a small table in the middle with two chairs. The guards for the Bureau of Prisons only allowed the attorney to bring a pad and pen and searched him thoroughly. Bernie wore his orange jumpsuit.

  “What are we gonna do?” asked Bernie.

  “You had first appearance, so now we figure out how to cut a deal quick. What about the other guy, Wells?”

  “See, that’s what’s so funny. Daniel Wells didn’t have nothin’ to do with this. I just stopped there to pick up my possum trap.”

  “Your what?”

  “Possum trap. For my exterminator business.”

  “So Wells didn’t do anything?”

  “Naw, nothin’. I was just waitin’ for someone to
ask, but the FBI fella just brung us here. Daniel and I never even got the chance to talk with each other.”

  The lawyer stood up. “Don’t tell anyone this. If we tell them Wells wasn’t involved, we got nothing to deal with. Some phantom National Guardsman from Tampa won’t cut it. You keep your fucking mouth shut.”

  Tasker took a minute to make sure he had everything that wasn’t necessary out of his pockets and stashed in the car. MCC Miami had good security and didn’t waste time making state cops comfortable. He looked up at the high walls, with row after row of razor wire strung on top. He knew no one had ever made it out of the federal holding facility, but a couple had tried. The concrete compound had even held Manuel Noriega for a time.

  Camy Parks pulled up next to him and sprang out of her old, beat-up issued Ford Crown Victoria. The big car made her look like a dwarf next to it. She had on tight slacks and a polo shirt with the ATF emblem on the left side of her impressive chest.

  “Hey, Billy,” she glanced at her watch and added, “Sorry, late night.”

  “Out partying?”

  “Better. In partying.” She let out a sly smile.

  Tasker felt his face flush. He wanted to ask more questions but refrained. “Dashett’s attorney just called me and said we couldn’t talk to his client. Since Wells asked to see us, we’re on good legal ground.”

  “Did the court appoint an attorney?”

  “Not yet. Wells said he wanted the weekend to try and find one.”

  “Think he’s got anything good?” She was emptying everything in her pockets, too.

  “Don’t know until we talk to him.”

  After they had gone through security and waited almost an hour for Wells to be brought down, a guard finally told Tasker and Camy they could go into one of the interview rooms. Tasker counted every minute as one more he could spend with his daughters, but knew he had to get this interview done before Wells changed his mind about talking to them.

  Inside, Wells sat on one side of the small table. His eyes followed them into the room without giving away any hint of emotion.