Burn Zone

by James O. Born

  Félix gave him one of his ready smiles and said, "You done good, Byron. You got the man hisself on the line, and you set up a deal. Snap! Looks like it'll work out."

  Gastlin grunted. "Not for me. You think my life will be worth anything after I do this?"

  Félix leaned on a desk and said, "You have my guarantee you'll be safe. Or at the very least we'll find your killer." The DEA man laughed at the old joke, but it didn't seem to amuse the chubby drug dealer, so Félix said, "The judge will go a lot easier on your ass."

  "I know it'll go easier on me if I talk, but I'm more worried about what'll happen outside this office. My business associates didn't go to Harvard. These guys are badasses."

  Félix answered right back, "And some of the brothers at Marion or Leavenworth aren't dangerous? You look like a big, puffy chance to get rich or get a blow job. Either way, bro, you won't be happy."

  "But I'll probably live."

  "Look, besides pot we found the Beretta. My boy here," he nodded toward Duarte, "will lay down a simple 'armed trafficking' count, and you'll be one step closer to permanent residence in federal prison. Then there are the state charges for the assault on the old lady."

  "Assault? I wrecked the truck."

  "Yeah, then you grabbed a half-naked sixty-one-year-old woman and dragged her into a closet. That's not only assault, I think the state's attorney will manage a lewd and lascivious count, too."

  Gastlin reached up and touched his swollen eye. "That lady got her revenge. My face and ribs are killin' me."

  Félix didn't let up. "Then there's the theft of the truck and the reckless endangerment of the guy up in the bucket."

  "I didn't even know he was there."

  "Yo, dude, you sayin' your defense is that you did steal the truck, but inadvertently almost killed the FPL worker?"

  Gastlin looked down at the table, then picked some spilled food off his orange jail shirt.

  Duarte could read that signal easily. He was a beaten man. Félix was not only a good undercover, the guy had some interview skills as well.

  Félix looked at Duarte, nodded, then with a tilt of his head, tried to get the ATF agent involved in the interview.

  Duarte sat across from the despondent prisoner.

  "Look, Gastlin." He waited for the man to look up into his eyes. "What do your initials, B. L., stand for again?"

  Félix chuckled and said, "Based on my sore dick, I'd say 'butt licker.'"

  Gastlin's face flashed red, and he looked down. "Byron Leon." He looked at Félix and said, "I already apologized. I just got the wrong vibe from you. I'm not gay."

  Félix snorted, "You could've fooled me."

  Duarte interrupted. "It doesn't matter."

  Gastlin held firm. "It does. It does to me. I'm not gay."

  Félix held up his hands. "Okay, you acted gay." He started to chuckle, and Gastlin sat, silent.

  Duarte gave him a few moments to get over the joke at his expense. "We can protect you, and you can save a lot of years behind bars if you just cooperate."

  Gastlin nodded slowly, then started to cry.

  Duarte waited as the tears started to flow harder. "Wait, wait, don't cry."

  The man looked up like he was about to be comforted. Like his day might turn from horrible to merely miserable.

  Duarte added, "There's no crying here. You had a loaded pistol and drugs. You're a criminal. An armed trafficker. You don't have the right to cry. You didn't lose a house to a hurricane or have your family swept away by a tsunami. You're just a dimwitted guy who did something stupid. Now we're giving you the chance to make it right. Talk or take it like a man, but stop crying right this second."

  Gastlin sniffled, wiped his nose with his hand and looked at Duarte. "You're right. What do you want to know?"

  Duarte had to take a second because he had meant what he said; it hadn't been an act. But he was still stunned that it had worked. Now he was part of this case.

  ***

  After debriefing Gastlin and finding only passing references to Ortíz in a couple of intelligence reports, the two federal agents slowed down.

  Félix said, "Yo, Rocket, we need a break. We been at this since ten o'clock."

  Duarte glanced at his G-Shock watch. It was almost three now. They had both skipped lunch. That didn't happen much with Chuck. In fact, he knew that Chuck, who had taken Gastlin back to the jail, had probably stopped for lunch over an hour ago.

  Duarte turned and stared through the tall window that looked out over Flagler Boulevard and onto the intracoastal waterway. The brilliant sky met the ocean and the colors set off a fresh feeling in him, like when he'd been a teenager and slept the whole night through, and dreamed of building things instead of blowing them up or investigating how they were blown up. He had missed Florida in the service, and once he'd come back he had never taken it for granted. He only wished the window was open so he could smell the fresh air.

  He heard the office doorbell and then the buzzer as the secretary let someone in through the outer door. A minute later, the office secretary leaned into his doorway and said, "Rocket, you got a visitor." He didn't ask who. He just cut across his cramped office, looked up at Félix and walked into the entryway. He stopped when he looked though the thick ballistic glass and saw the young woman there, her hair short and pulled back, her glasses resting on a nose that had been broken more than once.

  He cracked open the door and said, "May I help you?"

  She turned and said, "Are you Alex or Félix?"

  "Alex Duarte. What can I do for you?"

  She gave a sly smile and said, "I think it's more like what I can do for you." She held out her hand and let her wallet fall open.

  All he saw were three initials that stood out: FBI.

  ***

  As one of the few federal prisoners housed at the Palm Beach County jail, Byron Gastlin didn't feel cramped in his cell with the six other prisoners. But he didn't feel safe either. One of them, a Hispanic guy, was also a DEA victim and Gastlin knew him from the area. They had traded pot and coke a couple of times. Three of the others were being held on criminal tax charges while they waited for a bond hearing, and they were all bitching about a hard-core IRS agent named Robinson who had figured out their scam-they were no threat either. But a giant, flabby, toothless redneck from The Acreage kept looking at him like he was his next meal. Maybe Gastlin had seen Deliverance one too many times, but this guy made him nervous to the point of nausea. He was a failed bank robber, apparently, and kept saying the government was responsible for his problems because they hadn't provided him with help when he'd been fired from his job as a marine mechanic at the Port of Palm Beach after beaning a guy with a wrench. The guy was no Einstein, but that didn't make him any less dangerous.

  Gastlin sat on his lower bunk listening to the inmates in the general section make their never-ending racket. It in no way quieted down, even after lights out. If he had known he might end up in a place like this, he never would've sold drugs for a living. But it was just so damn profitable. As a boat salesman, he'd been lucky to make thirty-five grand a year. After allowing someone to use one of his company's boats to run in a load of coke, he'd had the contacts to sell product himself, and in the first three months in the trade he had made a hundred thousand bucks. He took a lot of vacations and didn't work too much, so things had leveled off, but he made a nice living. He shepherded in one load every couple of months and sold mostly pot the rest of the time. But now it didn't seem nearly worth it. He hadn't slept. He hated the baloney sandwiches and Kool-Aid for lunch and he didn't want to wake up to find he was a pillow for the bank robber. He felt his eyes well with tears again. The swollen right one hurt to wipe. In the general population, he might worry about getting a beating for being soft, but here, with the federal prisoners, crying was accepted.

  He was surprised he had gotten hold of Mr. Ortíz on the first try from the DEA office. The man was comfortable with him, that was obvious, and also the only reason he had any
hope of escaping a lengthy sentence. He hadn't told the good-looking DEA guy, Félix, that he usually met one of Ortíz's employees when he went to Panama. He had only seen Ortíz himself twice and spoken to him in person once. Ortíz was a big-time player; he didn't have time for little fish like Gastlin.

  He knew, however, not to downplay his relationship with Ortíz to Félix or the quiet ATF agent. That guy, he was the one who spooked Gastlin. He had those intense, dark eyes, and he never flinched or turned away. He kept staring until people answered his questions. Gastlin got the idea that he could be a real ballbreaker if he wanted to be.

  He stretched out on the bunk, wiping his eyes. As he looked up, a giant shadow passed over him. He saw the bank robber grin at him and quickly looked around the cell to see if he had any support. No one could meet his scared eyes.

  6

  DUARTE NOTICED THAT FéLIX'S VOICE HAD AN UNUSUAL HARD edge to it as he addressed the new FBI agent. They were all in the ATF office's conference room, and Félix was leaning forward. She was not unattractive. Duarte noticed her athletic body, but no one would think of her as a model either-unless she was modeling martial arts equipment.

  Félix said, "I don't understand how you knew we had a case on someone named Ortíz."

  She smiled that arrogant smile that FBI agents learn in the academy and said, "You don't have to understand how, you just need to understand that I was sent here to work on the case with you."

  "What was your name again, sweetheart?" Félix smiled, knowing he had pushed some buttons. Duarte just watched his friend sort this out. He had a feeling he knew what would happen.

  "My name is Lina. L-I-N-A. Cirillo."

  "Hispanic?"

  "Italian, why?"

  "I was looking for some hope."

  She smiled again, this time revealing perfect teeth in a predatory smile under that crooked nose. Nothing on her face lined up correctly. "I'm bringing you hope. We're very interested in this Ortíz character, and we have sources he might know here in the U.S. We might save you a whole lot of heartache on this case." She looked at Duarte. "Agent Duarte doesn't seem to have a problem with me being here."

  Duarte looked at her. "Even if I did, I have the feeling you're staying."

  "That's the army mentality, isn't it? Adapt and overcome."

  "How'd you know I was in the army?"

  "Same way I knew Félix was born in Havana. I work for the FBI."

  He remained silent. This woman was smart, and she knew more than she was letting on. Besides, she looked like a girl who could back you up in a fight, which he found fascinating, so he didn't mind her staying, at least for a while. He could relate to her determination, and he sensed the ambition in her, too. How else did you have enough clout to show up from Washington in another agency's office and dictate a case?

  Félix said, "This is bullshit. We'll see what my bosses have to say about this." He stood up and stormed down the hall toward Duarte's office and a phone.

  Lina Cirillo turned her unusual face to Duarte and said, "Are you going to protest, too?"

  Duarte shrugged. His universal language. She could interpret it any way she wished.

  She reached across the table and patted him on the arm. "I'm not the enemy; I'm here to help."

  "I think I've heard that before."

  "My concerns are not about a drug kingpin. They're about national security."

  "What makes you think I'm not worried about national security?"

  She just kept a straight face and looked at him.

  After a few minutes, Félix appeared at the door. He had clearly been in a heated conversation on the phone and his face was still red. He said, "Okay, you win. But I won't make this easy for you."

  She smiled and said, "It never is."

  ***

  Duarte checked his watch for the third time at six-fifteen, thinking Alice might have stood him up as a lesson in not taking her for granted. He deserved it and frankly thought it was a pretty good lesson. He got it. He was mad at himself. Why couldn't he commit to something as simple as calling her his girlfriend?

  He paced in the open courtyard on the second floor of the City Place Building in front of the popular restaurant and bar. He even had on a sport jacket, one of the few he had worn since a dance at Fort Leonard Wood, which all the recruits had been required to attend. He didn't mind the coat. He always wore a second, button-down shirt to conceal his Glock. This just felt a little warmer.

  He heard her voice, Florida with a tinge of Tennessee, before he saw her walk in.

  "Rocket."

  He smiled and stepped to greet her.

  She held off slightly. "So are we buddies, or more?"

  "How about both?"

  "We'll see how I feel after a few drinks."

  She didn't look like his buddy in her short blue dress with a white chemise. She had an athletic build with a muscular back and broad shoulders, but that didn't mean she wasn't feminine. Tonight he thought she looked like an angel.

  They found a high-top table near the front window so they could people-watch, and, as usual, he let her do most of the talking. He did have a few things to say and waited his turn patiently.

  "I have a better handle on the big case I'm working with DEA."

  "Oh yeah? When do you leave?"

  "I'm not going to Panama."

  "Really?"

  "I still have to travel, but only to New Orleans."

  "I wasn't serious about you finding a Panamanian beauty. At least not too serious."

  "No, Félix Baez is going down with the informant. I'm going to wait for the load at the port in New Orleans."

  "By yourself?"

  "No, there'll be DEA guys around and…" he stopped short. He didn't want to raise any questions. But it was too late.

  "And who else?"

  "The FBI."

  "How'd they get involved?"

  "Don't know, but an agent from Washington showed up today."

  "That's just what you guys need, some old fart giving unwanted advice."

  Duarte just nodded. He didn't want to make her paranoid just as they were starting to get serious. Telling his girlfriend he was going to New Orleans with another woman would raise some flags. Just the mental image of Lina Cirillo caused him concern. Looking at Alice, he realized she was built a little like the FBI agent. Maybe that's what Duarte found attractive about her. Lina didn't have Alice's delicate face and bright smile, but she radiated energy and fitness. Duarte liked that.

  Then he thought he was hallucinating. At the front door a woman in a nice business suit stepped inside, her short, straight hair loose on her shoulders. The suit looked like the one Lina had worn earlier. Duarte blinked and realized it was Lina. What the hell was she doing there? Then Duarte's surprise moved to astonishment when he saw Félix Baez step inside right behind her and place a gentle hand in the small of her back.

  Alice saw his face and said, "What is it?"

  He shook his head and said, "It's just, ah, Félix. My friend, Félix."

  "Invite him over."

  "No. I thought we'd leave for dinner. I haven't told you where we're going yet."

  "He can sit with us for a minute. Don't be rude."

  "I'm sure he has other plans." He knew the combination of Lina and Alice would disrupt his plans for the evening. His heart rate increased like he was setting a bomb. At least he was trained for that. This was all new to him.

  Duarte saw Félix look his way and tap the FBI agent on the arm, then head toward him. His friendly, easy smile did nothing to relax Duarte.

  The DEA agent said, "I heard you say you were coming by here tonight, so I thought we'd surprise you." He took the empty seat across from Duarte and offered Lina the one next to him.

  Alice cleared her throat and Duarte said, "I'm sorry, Alice, this is Félix and Lina."

  They all smiled and nodded. Then a young man spoke into a portable microphone making an announcement about some special event. Both of the women turned in their seats
to see and hear him. Duarte leaned into Félix and whispered, "What are you doing? I thought you hated her."

  "I hate the FBI. Look at her. Pussy is pussy." He gave one of his little cackles.

  Then Duarte was faced with small talk as the announcement ended and the women turned to face them again.

  Alice said, "Are you both with the DEA?"

  Lina quickly replied, "No, I'm an FBI agent from Washington."

  Alice's look at Duarte said it all. His evening was about to end.

  7

  SOON AFTERWARD, DUARTE PULLED HIS PERSONAL VEHICLE, A three-year-old Toyota Tacoma pickup truck, next to his brother's new Porsche. Sometimes it seemed crowded here when his ATF Taurus and the other two cars were crammed into the limited space behind his parents' house, but tonight he hardly noticed or cared. He had tried to speak to Alice to explain, but short of grabbing her arm and forcing her to listen to him, he didn't see how he could have stopped her as she muttered some excuse about a previous commitment and left the restaurant.

  He slipped out of the truck and looked up at his apartment. All the lights were on, so he figured Frank was working at the kitchen table. Duarte trudged over to his parents' rear kitchen door, already smelling the spices his mother had no doubt worked so carefully into whatever she had made for them. He hoped Frank had eaten already or was too absorbed with his work to come down yet.

  As soon as he was in the kitchen, he heard his brother.

  "There he is now. For a rocket, you don't seem to move that fast. You're late."

  "Sorry," muttered Duarte.

  His mother stepped into the kitchen and kissed him on the cheek like she had every single time he had walked in the house since he was a toddler. At fifty-six, his mother was still a beautiful woman, though over the years she had put on a few pounds, mainly as a result of her own skill in the kitchen.

  "Where's your guest?" she asked.

  "Another commitment. Sorry, Ma. I'll eat enough for both of us."