Burn Zone

by James O. Born

  ***

  Lázaro Staub let his eyes burn at the terrified man from Omaha who was sitting on the trunk of the rented Impala. Pelly leaned against the car's driver-side door with that perpetual smirk under his five o'clock shadow even though it wasn't yet nine in the morning. And he was in a town named Lafayette, about three hours from New Orleans.

  Staub shook his head and glanced at Pelly. "I'm surrounded by idiots. First you and your hired asses, then this moron manages to lose our package altogether."

  Ike said, "There were just too many of them. I'm sorry, Mr. Ortíz, but they surprised me."

  "I'm afraid you'll be in for a horrible surprise if we don't have the truck with my package back in our possession in the next few hours." He looked up at the clear sky and the expanse to the north. "How big is this town?"

  "What, Lafayette? I dunno, hundred thousand maybe."

  "Where would one take a rental truck?"

  Ike shrugged and shook his head.

  Pelly cleared his throat.

  Staub looked at him, "What? What is it, Pelly?"

  He started in Spanish.

  Staub said, "Speak English, so we don't have to translate for this idiot."

  "If you look at it like a business, who would want the truck?"

  Staub thought about it until he heard Ike say, "The rental company?"

  Pelly nodded. "For parts, if the truck is not working. Perhaps the reward, no?"

  Staub's narrow eyes darted from side to side. "You may be right, Pelly." He looked at his assistant. "Get on it." He glared at Ike, wondering the exact cost if he were to eliminate this problem right now.

  ***

  Duarte showed his ID to get into the New Orleans office of the ATF. The office had moved since Katrina and seemed a little cramped in the temporary building on the outskirts of New Orleans.

  He needed some analytical help and knew the best person for that would be one of the office's intelligence analysts. After a few greetings and small talk, he caught up to a young agent named Hugh O'Conner who had been through the academy with him.

  The New Orleans agent slapped Duarte on the back. "Heard you were out here on a case, but I thought it was at the port."

  "It was. I'm just doing some follow-up."

  "How's South Florida?"

  "Good."

  "Miss the army at all?"

  "Nope."

  O'Conner smiled. "Still the talkative one, huh, Alex?"

  Duarte just smiled and said, "You guys have a 'go-to' analyst?"

  "Yeah, doesn't everyone?" He looked down the hall to a tall, pretty woman with red hair. "Jan Stern is the best. She's got the lowdown on every database you can think of."

  "Will she give me a few minutes?"

  "Jan? Sure. Loves Latins. Lived in Spain for a while. She'll do anything you ask."

  "Thanks."

  "Still all business."

  Duarte shrugged as he started toward the analyst. He eased up to her cubicle and smiled. "Jan, hello. I'm Alex Duarte from the West Palm Beach office."

  She looked up from her report, then smiled herself. "What can I do for you, Agent Duarte?"

  "I need to identify someone, and all I have is a description and nickname." He pulled out the registration sheet from the motel in Metairie where Linley had said he delivered the crate. It had taken a while to find the exact motel, but the owner was cooperative if it meant getting rid of a federal agent. "His registration at a motel just says 'Ike Floyd, Neb.'"

  "No problem." She scooted out a second chair and slid it next to her. "Have a seat, and we'll see what we can find."

  After a half hour of more conversation than he wanted but some dynamite computer work, she had narrowed it down to five possibilities for "Ike" Floyd in the Omaha area.

  As he prepared to leave, she said, "How long you out here for?"

  "Few more days, at least."

  "Are you free for dinner?" She had a bright, flawless smile.

  He smiled and knew his answer immediately. "I'd like that, but I have a girlfriend." He'd finally taken the plunge.

  ***

  William "Ike" Floyd had tried to strike up a conversation with the man named Pelly, but so far he hadn't had much luck. He wasn't unfriendly or nasty, just focused on finding the truck. He spoke English. He had an accent, but he knew what words to string together and how to put in a little inflection. In most sentences. But he didn't have much to say.

  They pulled up to the fourth place that rented U-Hauls. This was a grimy, former gas station that wasn't one of the nice, roomy corporate sites.

  Pelly nodded. "This kind of place might buy stolen parts."

  Ike looked over at the man whose face seemed to grow darker with hair by the minute and said, "You think we got a chance? What if he doesn't want to say anything?"

  "If he knows something, he'll talk."

  Just the way the trim, furry man said it made Ike believe it. Ike pulled the rented Impala into the lot next to the old station, and they walked through the empty office and into the covered work bay. Inside, a sloppy, fat man in a T-shirt too small for his girth unscrewed the grill to a step van.

  Ike said in a low voice, "I think that's my truck."

  Pelly stepped into the bay and said, "Excuse me, sir."

  The fat man jumped at his voice and turned to face his visitors. He stood to his full six-three and tried to pull down the greasy white T-shirt. "What can I do for you boys?"

  Pelly smiled and eased closer. Ike noticed him reach under the back of his shirt for his automatic pistol. He had seen how quick Ortíz was to kill. The image of Faith's open, staring, dead eyes was still burned into his head. He was about to see another version of the brutal way these guys did business.

  26

  WILLIAM "IKE" FLOYD DIDN'T KID HIMSELF. HE KNEW HE WAS involved in something that would have the cops all over him if they pulled it off. Of course, he had thought that once before and still never had had to answer for his role in that incident. He had to admit he wasn't comfortable with seeing people killed right in front of him. Even though Pelly had moved his Beretta.380 from the rear of his pants to the front, Ike didn't give the fat mechanic much of a chance for surviving this encounter.

  As the big man waddled slowly closer to them, he passed a greasy hand through his wavy blond hair. There was an oily fingerprint on his nose.

  "Hey," he hesitated, his eyes fixed on Pelly's gun. "What can I do for you?"

  Pelly nodded at Ike. "Make sure is right truck," he said, his accent bleeding through.

  Ike quick-stepped past the mechanic and over to the U-Haul step van and peeked into the cab. His Doolittle Industries ball cap was on the dash, and he recognized the small tear in the truck's bench seat. He looked back at Pelly and nodded. He elected to stay next to the truck.

  The nervous mechanic turned so he could see both Ike and Pelly.

  Ike knew Ortíz was ruthless. He had seen it firsthand. Pelly didn't have the sophisticated manners of Ortíz, but with that thick stubble and muscular arms, Ike knew the younger man was no pussy. He seemed more approachable than Ortíz, even eating a Big Mac with Ike at lunchtime while Ortíz made calls from a diner. Ike figured the boss didn't want to be involved in the grunt work like this.

  Yeah, Pelly seemed okay, but that didn't mean he wouldn't think twice about shooting the behemoth in the head if he had to.

  Then Pelly started to speak in that slow English he had. He looked at Ike but spoke for the mechanic to hear. "I know this gentleman is a businessman. He deals with stolen trucks. That's for profit, no?" He looked at the mechanic. The man was shaking hard enough for Ike to see the fat strips on his back jiggle.

  Pelly continued. "I am also a businessman, so I can see what he wants. He would prefer I pay him five hundred American dollars to find out where our crate is and who took it. He knows that involving the local police in a murder investigation doesn't help me or him." He looked at the mechanic. "¿És verdad?" Then he translated, "Correct, no?"

  The me
chanic stole a glance at Ike, then stared back at Pelly. "That's right, that's right."

  He was panting like a dog on a hot day.

  Pelly leveled his gaze at the man. "So who took it?" He rested his hand on the pistol grip.

  The mechanic didn't risk being slow with the answer. "Craig Gaines and some of his buddies took the truck. I just paid them fifteen large for it. There weren't no crate or nothing in it when they delivered it."

  "And where is Craig Gaines?" Pelly let his hand drop off the gun.

  "About four or five blocks over near the railroad tracks." He wiped his sweaty forehead, leaving a smear of black grease. "Fourth house in from the main road. Has a green Camaro out front."

  Pelly nodded and smiled. "We will make this deal, my friend."

  The man's legs were shaking now.

  Pelly kept his placid face. "If we go to Craig Gaines's house and you have warned them, or they are not there, or we do not recover our property, I will make sure you do not see the sunset." Pelly kept his hairy face pleasant. "If we get the crate, we will not say we saw this truck here and you will never see us again. Is this not fair?"

  The mechanic nodded furiously.

  "Now, do you have any guns here?"

  "Why?"

  "Because if you do not answer me, I will shoot you."

  "In the office. Cabinet behind the desk. Right at eye level."

  Pelly looked over at Ike, who scampered past them again and into the office. In the cluttered room, he squeezed past a stack of boxes to get behind the desk and in front of the metal, nicked-up cabinet. He had to jiggle the handle to force open the door. He found a small SIG-Sauer auto pistol in a nylon holster on the shelf, just about his eye level. He grabbed the pistol, then paused. On the same shelf, over to the side, was a wooden crate without a top. Set inside like eggs in a carton were six old-style grenades like the ones in an old John Wayne war movie. He slid out the small crate and tucked it under one arm, then hurried out to Pelly.

  "I found something extra."

  "What?"

  "Look." He held up the crate of grenades.

  Pelly smiled. "Put 'em in the car."

  "What about the gun?"

  Pelly looked at him. "Keep it. You may need it." He looked at the mechanic. "No calls or travel for the next two hours. Understand?"

  "I do, I do, sir, and thank you."

  Pelly turned, and Ike fell into step with him.

  Pelly said, "You see, money can solve a lot of problems and save a lot of trouble."

  Ike said, "But he knew you'd shoot him if you had to. Even I could tell that."

  "He better hope we get the crate and the boss doesn't come talk to him. Then he'll wish he'd only be shot."

  ***

  The pretty analyst, Jan Stern, had come up not only with five possibilities for "Ike" Floyd, but with their driver's license photos as well. Now Duarte was on his way back out to Gretna to have Cal Linley point out the man to whom he'd given the crate from the container.

  Duarte had thought he could eliminate two men from the list. One was in his forties, older than Linley had described, and one had a funny eye placed way over on the right side of his head. Duarte thought Linley would have mentioned that if the man he had dealt with looked like that. But he had to be sure, so he turned his rented Taurus down Linley's street, then slowed.

  There was a mass of emergency vehicles in front of the little house.

  He parked and wandered to the edge of the crime-scene tape. He showed his ID to a uniformed officer standing next to the tape. "What's going on?"

  The younger, thick-necked cop said, "Someone found a dead guy inside."

  "Cal Linley?"

  "Think so. You know him?"

  "Sort of." Duarte knew he'd have to let the lead homicide detective know that he'd talked to him. He wondered what the chances were of this murder being unrelated to his case. Just about zero, he figured.

  Right now all he had was one name in Omaha. He knew where he was headed.

  27

  PELLY PREFERRED HAVING THE DULLARD AMERICAN, IKE, IN THE front seat with him as he drove around Layfaette. He was an idiot, but he wasn't constantly putting on an act or ordering Pelly around. Now with the boss in the car and Ike stuck in the backseat, Pelly once again had to take directions to a house he had already been past. It was like having a wife.

  He took the Impala past the house slowly, noticing the activity. Obviously the mechanic had not made a call. One young man sat on the front porch in a faded plastic chair, sipping a beer. Another man leaned into the hood of a green car in the grass of the front yard. It looked like two more people were inside.

  "Good, Pelly, good," Staub said, like he was watching a porno movie. "I'm impressed how you found them."

  "They may not have the crate."

  "But they'll tell us where it is."

  "How can you be so sure?"

  His employer just chuckled.

  Pelly knew the boss was going to use his own means to question these men, whether they were efficient or not. He looked over his shoulder and saw the fear on Ike's face. For a tough-looking guy, he didn't seem to have much stomach for violence. He looked sick right now.

  Pelly said to the passenger in the rear, "Ike, when we pull around and stop, you can watch the car."

  The American spoke right up. "No, no. I'll go in. I want to make sure they tell you the truth." He added, "Can I bring a grenade?"

  Pelly shook his head and pulled the car around and parked directly in front of the house, still attracting no attention. He had his Beretta in his waistband. He'd save the grenades for later.

  The three men headed up the front walkway. Pelly was alert to an ambush, but so far the man at the car had not looked up and the man drinking a beer had only nodded to them. Pelly had been on many raids with the national police and had a good sense of when things were not as they appeared. These men were so complacent he thought it was a trap at first. Then he realized they were just Americans and so used to security that they took it for granted.

  The man on the porch let the front legs of the chair he was leaning back in touch the ground. "You don't look like no cops."

  Pelly would've gotten right to the point, but Staub said, "No, my friend. We are here to chat."

  "Chat?"

  "That's right, chat with you young men." He looked back at Ike, whose eyes were nervously darting from the porch to the windows. Staub said, "Do you recognize anyone?"

  Ike shook his head, then said to the man, "Is Craig here?"

  Pelly wondered: If Ike had been ambushed and had had to fight off several attackers, how had he gotten the man's name? Perhaps he'd gotten it from the mechanic, but now Pelly was curious.

  The man on the porch just waved them inside. "Craig is in watching TV or something."

  Pelly stepped through the open front door with Staub and Ike behind him.

  In the main room a young man and teenaged girl sat on a wide, ratty couch, watching a TV set on top of a coffee table. They didn't even look up from the TV to their visitors. Pelly noticed that they were holding hands. The girl had long brown hair and acne on her cute face. He could relate to that, something that distracted people from how you really looked.

  The young man glanced up and casually looked over at the intruders. Pelly noticed that when his eyes fell on Ike, he flinched and then sat up.

  Staub smiled, realizing the man recognized Ike. He pulled the pistol Pelly had brought on the Flame of Panama for him. He let the man see the gun, then said, "I believe you have something that belongs to me."

  Now the girl jumped at the sight of a man with a gun.

  The man stood up and thrust out his hands. "Wait, don't do nothin' crazy."

  Staub walked over to him and calmly placed the barrel on the head of the girl sitting next to him. "I assure you it won't be crazy."

  The man's eyes darted over to Ike and said, "He tell you how I got the truck?" His voice cracked. Oddly, the girl just looked up at Staub with her big
brown eyes, not acknowledging the danger she was in.

  The man's voice picked up on the urgency of the situation. Pelly knew he had no idea that his girlfriend had little chance of surviving this.

  The man said, "I'll tell you how I got it. I'll tell you everything." He stared at Ike. Pelly noticed his new comrade flushing red in his face. This might be interesting.

  ***

  Duarte had found a flight from New Orleans first thing in the morning and was on the ground in Omaha, driving a rental car, by nine o'clock. He had not told Félix what was happening for several reasons. One was that the DEA man had become more and more agitated as the death of his informant had eaten at him. He could see it in Félix's manner and the gradual ebbing of his natural good humor. Duarte didn't want to raise false hope in his friend.

  The other reason he had not included his friend on the trip was that he didn't want any witnesses. In case he had to resort to his way of questioning, he'd rather not put someone else on the spot. With the death of Linley, the case had taken an ominous turn. He still didn't know what was in the crate, but the possibilities scared him.

  By ten, he had eliminated one suspect. Darrel Floyd was a computer programmer who worked from home. Even with his less-than-perfect interviewing skills, Duarte knew the anemic-looking, thirty-five-year-old who was busy playing War Craft on his PC was not involved in anything concerning illegal drugs and murder.

  At the apartment of the second man on his list, Duarte got no answer to his knocks. He hated the idea of waiting until the evening, when most people were off work, to talk to the man, but as he left the building, he saw a hand-scrawled note on one door that said "Manager."

  A rap on the door brought a short, round woman in her midsixties, wearing a brown muumuu and flip-flops.

  She looked Duarte over and said, "We got no vacancies."

  He said, "I was looking for one of your tenants."

  "Who?"

  "Mr. William Floyd."