The ATF agent had to move to avoid being shot and fell behind the car at the curb. He heard another shot and felt a sting on his arm. Looking down, through his clearing vision, he saw a little blood but not a serious wound. The next shot showed him why. The gunman had shot the windows out of the Nissan that Duarte had hidden behind, and the glass from the first window had cut his arm. He knew there were still two men on the other side of the car.
He peeked under the vehicle and saw a set of feet in work boots coming to the rear of the Nissan. Duarte waited to time his spring. He crouched, and a second before the man came around the trunk of the small car, Duarte was in the air. He struck the man like a Miami Dolphins linebacker and leaned his head down so he would catch the man on the chin.
The man never had a chance to aim the pistol, and the force of the blow knocked him hard against the next car. He was unconscious before his body stopped toppling onto the ground. Duarte looked for the handgun, then stole a peek under the car to see where the third man was standing.
The gun was too far under the next parked car to reach without exposing himself. He popped up and saw a younger man with a semiautomatic pistol. His hand shook as he scanned over toward the car concealing the ATF agent.
Duarte darted low behind the car to a better position and hoped to grab the fallen handgun when he heard a vehicle rumbling down the street. The old pickup truck swerved in close to him, making him roll to the curb. The man with the broken elbow flopped into the bed. The man with the gun scooped up his unconscious friend and struggled to pile him into the bed of the truck, too.
He thought about trying to reach the pistol under the car when he realized one of the men from the truck was now under the car and had a hand on the gun.
Duarte sprang up as the man fired from under the car. The sound was deafening. The round hit the curb, spraying concrete under the car. Then the man jumped up and returned to the passenger compartment of the big Dodge pickup truck.
The driver gunned the engine and then took the corner fast enough to send the men in the back into the side of the bed.
Duarte scanned the street quickly for more threats and to make sure no one was hurt. No one else was on the street. Not even in any of the old shops. He looked at the cut on his arm and again realized it was minor.
He took a few deep breaths, shrugged, and started to jog back to the hotel.
***
Alice Brainard had her sample properly stored in a 1.5-milliliter plastic tube, but she was not a DNA scientist. She worked with them and liked them but didn't feel competent enough to develop the STR, or Short Tandem Report, sample and make a determination for identification. She knew whom to ask and how to ask him, and she felt a little guilty for doing it. She even felt guilty for knowing how to do it, but it could help Alex, and she knew he didn't blow things out of proportion.
It was just before lunch, and she planned to work out instead of eat, which was common. What was different was that she changed up in the lab instead of the gym. She also wore shorter pants and a leotard top instead of a T-shirt. She looked like one of the women at the commercial gyms she often made fun of, the ones who put on makeup to work out, the ones who wanted to be seen more than they wanted to be fit.
Then she waited until Scott Mahovich was in the lab alone. She liked the DNA scientist as a person, as a quiet, geeky kind of guy. She knew he stole glances at her when she was at her station. She knew he kept track of whether she was dating. She was always pleasant to him, but didn't want to lead him on. Until now.
"Hey, Scott," she said, making sure he got a good look at her.
The DNA scientist remained silent for a moment as he ran his hand over his near-crew cut. "Hi, Alice." He fumbled for something to say. "Goin' to work out?"
"You should be a detective." She smiled and placed her hand on his arm. She noticed the blush in his face.
"I need to start back at the gym." He flexed his thin white arms, then looked at her. "I'm mainly an aerobics guy."
"I like to mix it up. Today is back and aerobics." She turned to show off her back and butt. How slutty am I? she thought.
When she turned back to him, he was just staring.
She decided to make her move. "Scott, you think if I had a lab task that wasn't, strictly speaking, on an official case, I could talk to you about it?"
"Yeah, sure. How is it not an official case?"
"It's real preliminary, and the submitting agency wants to keep it quiet."
"What is it?"
"DNA."
"From what?"
"Blood under a fingernail."
"That's easy."
"Would you help me? I'd love to learn more about the process." She leaned in close to the man, who was now shaking slightly.
"Sure. I'll help."
"But you can't tell anyone."
He smiled as she looked up in his eyes. He gulped and said, "I promise."
She gave him one more smile to seal the deal and then stood up on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "You're a champ."
As she walked away, she felt lower than she ever had since trying out for the cheerleading team in high school. She was pretty sure Alex Duarte was worth it.
***
Duarte came to a stop in front of the Marriott and saw Lina Cirillo on her cell phone in the lobby. As soon as she saw him, she flipped the phone closed and turned to him.
"What happened to your arm?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
"Someone tried to rob me, and this is from a shattered window."
"Just now?"
"Five minutes ago."
"What shattered the glass?"
"A bullet."
Now she raised her voice. "The robber shot at you?"
"Sounds unbelievable, doesn't it?"
"How can you stay so calm?"
"What should I do? It's over."
"I don't know, but if someone shot at me, I'd be upset."
"I did cut my run short. What else should I do?"
"Call the police?"
"Won't help. The guys are gone. I messed up one's arm."
"Maybe they can find him at a hospital."
Duarte thought about it and shook his head. "No. It'll just be a distraction. We have enough to worry about."
"So that's it?"
"I didn't say that. I'm wondering how random a target I was."
"Why?"
"Who robs joggers?"
***
William "Ike" Floyd could not believe how lucky he was. He had Craig in the cab of the rental truck talking about what they liked to do and feeling the interest the young man had in him. Now Ike wished he had shaved this morning before he left the Motel 8. He and Craig had shared lunch and a few beers, and Ike didn't give a damn about his schedule right now.
Craig brushed back his neat light brown hair. "So you're on your way to Houston."
"Yeah."
"When you supposed to be there?"
"I'm the boss. I decide. Why, you got something in mind?" He smiled and edged closer on the big bench seat.
Craig smiled, too. "Don't know, but I don't meet a lot of guys like you in Lafayette."
"What kind of guy am I?"
"Funny, good-looking."
Ike's heart rate started to rise. He felt some sweat on his forehead. "You have someplace we can go?"
"What about the back of the truck?"
"This truck?"
"Sure. What are you carrying?"
Ike wanted to tell him. He wanted to impress the young man and share his glory. He thought about the consequences of telling him the truth or just saying it was a crate. He looked into the young man's eyes. "Can you keep a secret?"
"For you, I know I could."
"C'mon." Ike slid back past the steering wheel and fished his keys out of his pocket. He walked to the rear of the truck, arriving at the tailgate at the same time as Craig.
He paused at the locked truck door. "Now, this is b
ig. Big enough that it'll make you look at things different."
"Does it fill the whole truck? We still will have room for us, right?"
Ike was disappointed in the boy's attitude and at the same time happy he was so eager.
"There's room. I was just trying to show you I'm not a regular truck driver. I'm a visionary."
"What's that?"
"A person who can see the future."
"No shit. Like, can you tell me the Lotto numbers?"
"No, not that kind of seeing the future." Ike paused to gather his thoughts. "Like seeing how each of us can affect the future. I want to save the country."
"From what?"
"From what it's becoming."
Craig seemed satisfied with that. He also seemed eager to get in the truck with Ike.
Ike unlocked the door and then turned to the young man. "You have to give me your word of honor not to tell anyone about what you see."
Craig solemnly said, "I give you my word." Then he gave Ike a sly smile.
Ike threw the door so it slid into the slot in the roof of the truck. His heart felt like it was going to shoot out of his chest.
22
ALEX DUARTE COULD HAVE EASILY IDENTIFIED HIMSELF AND entered the port through the main gate. He still had an ID tag from the day before, but he didn't want any official record of his entry into the Port of New Orleans. He found a low section of chain-link fence, quickly scampered up the outside and dropped to the ground on the inside. He left the day-old badge on his collar. His plan was to stay away from everyone's attention, leave minimal evidence of reconnaissance. The fewer people who knew you were around the better. This was based on one of the many lessons he had learned in Bosnia, both in limited combat and from backing up the navy SEALs who had come into the country to capture war criminals. They had conducted several successful operations and used Duarte for a few minor booby traps and demolition jobs because of his duties with the combat engineers. It was these same SEALs who had shown Duarte the power of an "aggressive interrogation." It was a simple concept Duarte tried not to abuse. In the right circumstances, with proper justification and an individual who deserved it, fear and pain were excellent motivators. Duarte had been very careful in his use of the concept. It certainly was not approved of by the Department of Justice.
Duarte had used it only in vital and dangerous situations, but he considered almost being killed by robbers vital and serious. He didn't believe that seeing the first officer of the Flame of Panama before being accosted was a coincidence. He had some questions to ask, and if the man was not open to the interview, he might end up with another scar on the other side of his hairy face.
Duarte navigated the big port. He had thought about finding this Cal Linley while he was here but decided the man's house would be more appropriate and less public.
He finally found the dock where the Flame of Panama had been moored.
There was a large open space on the dock where the ship had been.
Duarte nodded to a man in a small, three-wheeled security cart. The patch on the man's dark polyester shirt read "W Security."
The older black man's eyes went immediately to the identification badge on Duarte's shirt, then he smiled and said, "How can I help you?"
"I was wondering if you knew when the Flame of Panama pulled out?"
"Sure, I had just come on duty. It left at six this morning."
"With everyone on board?"
"I assume so. They didn't make any fuss like they do when someone isn't back from leave. They had the pilot guide them out, and were out of sight before the sun was all the way up."
"Thanks," mumbled Duarte, wondering how he had seen the first mate at nine o'clock if the ship had left at six. He was certain he had seen him.
The old security guard said, "Have a good day, son."
Duarte looked up and nodded absently.
This might be a long day.
***
Lázaro Staub stood in front of the seated Pelly, looking down at him like he might strike the young man. The twenty-nine-year-old from the town of Yavisa, near the Darien Gap, had felt the heat before. As a child he had seen Colombian drug runners take over his grandfather's small farm and treat the old man like a slave. When he was fifteen, Pelly had killed two of the drug runners with a hatchet. He had managed to keep his identity secret for two weeks as the drug runners tried to find out who had butchered their men. If it were not for a newly appointed narcotics officer named Staub who had led a raid into the town, Pelly would have been found out. Staub had stood up to the Colombians and given Pelly someone to admire. Four years later, Staub helped Pelly get on with the national police.
It was only after a few years of working with the colonel that Pelly realized his righteous outrage wasn't about drugs, but about foreigners coming into Panama. Staub was crazy about others making trouble in his country. If he hadn't been seduced by money, Staub may have really helped the country. At least Pelly used to think he had a chance.
Now, in the café, Staub had allowed his voice to raise because he didn't believe, even if any of the people in the kitchen spoke Spanish, they would have any idea what he was talking about.
Staub stopped and faced Pelly. "I told you this son of a bitch, Duarte, was sharp, didn't I?"
Pelly nodded, trying to look bored.
"I also told you to hire good men. You knew someone here in New Orleans."
"I do."
"Those idiots? They couldn't handle a child. Duarte escaped like it was a classroom exercise."
"You're right, boss. He was tough. The boys said he was fast, too. They said he knew karate and surprised them."
"That's what we pay men like that for-surprises."
"I know, boss."
"You know, you know…You don't know anything." Saliva started to spray as he got angrier and angrier.
Although he wanted to smile at his boss's unraveling, Pelly remained still and silent. He occasionally saw the colonel get mad like this. Usually someone died when he got this crazy. Pelly knew he wouldn't do anything to him, but he also knew this guy Duarte wouldn't last until the weekend.
Staub said, "Now you have to make it look like an accident. After a robbery attempt, a second violent crime will arouse too much suspicion."
"How do I arrange it?"
"I'll call you when we're going out. Use a stolen car. Make certain you hit him dead on. I don't care if you have to back over him to be sure."
Pelly nodded, then said, "And how do I get back to Panama after I'm through?"
"What do you mean?"
"The Flame of Panama left this morning. I have no papers with me."
"We'll work it out when it's time. I may need you on the main job, too. This man William Floyd has not impressed me."
"I thought you needed an American to complete the assignment."
"I need an American to take the blame. Anyone can complete the mission."
Pelly realized he'd be in the U.S. for a while. He'd try and improve his English during the visit. He finally said, "I'll take care of Duarte if you need me to, but I'm not sure what he could do to hurt us."
"That's why you're not in charge. He is determined and smart, and that worries me when we have such big plans. You need to ask fewer questions and take more action."
Pelly glared at his boss. He had no idea what kind of action he might take if he got the chance. This whole mission was crazy and, more important, didn't earn them any money. He did not share his boss's sense of vengeance. He did, however, share his view of how helpful the right killing could be.
***
Ike looked over his shoulder into the noonday sun and saw how the light hit Craig's brown hair. Ike knew he should keep his mouth and the truck shut, but he had been bursting to tell someone what he was up to and what he had been entrusted to transport.
As the door slid up, Craig said, "You got this whole truck for that one crate?"
"I wasn't sure how big it was gonna be. It had to be covered, too. It
might not have fit in a pickup with a cover."
Craig hopped up into the truck.
Ike took a second to look at the muscular young man's backside as he made the jump, then followed him inside. There were six pine two-by-four pieces of lumber he had thrown in the truck in case he needed them to stabilize the crate. He hadn't known it would be so heavy, and once they had it on the truck's wooden floor the crate had bit in and he could tell it wasn't going to budge. The lumber, all between four and six feet, lay in a small stack next to the wall of the truck bed.
Ike watched as Craig kneeled next to the crate and poked a finger between the boards. He was pleased to see the interest in the young man. Maybe he'd even have a companion for the trip to Houston.
Craig turned and said, "Okay, I give up. What is it?"
Ike smiled. "You sure you want to know? Once you hear it, you won't be able to forget it." He smiled, still sucking in the little gut he had developed just after turning thirty.
"I wouldn't have come in here if I wasn't ready for a surprise. Maybe if I hear a surprise, I'll give one, too." His smile and green eyes made Ike's knees go weak.
Ike squatted next to him and pulled on the one board that was loose. He figured he'd tease him a little more by showing him the metal casing and some of the wires he'd be able to see through the crate. "See if this gives you any idea." He worked on the board as Craig scooted to the side to give Ike room to work.
Ike pulled the board loose easily, his heart pounding and sending blood through his ears like a bass drum. Once he was done, he said, "Lookie here. What'd ya think?"
As Ike turned to see Craig's reaction, he felt a stinging pain in his shoulder and heard a loud slapping sound. He reached up and grabbed at his left shoulder and turned to see what had happened. He froze, seeing Craig with one of the shorter two-by-fours in his hands, his arms cocked like Barry Bonds at the plate.
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