Burn Zone

by James O. Born

  "With respect, jefe, I disagree with your plan, because it will disrupt business, but I still work for you."

  It wasn't the same as being with him, but it would do. "Our challenge will be to get that idiot William Floyd to complete his tasks."

  Pelly just stared at him.

  Staub said, "We will leave for Houston this evening."

  Pelly said, "What about the ATF agent?"

  "He can't stop us, but I hope he doesn't piece it together after the fact." He didn't mention that he intended to deal with Lina Cirillo before they left.

  ***

  Alex Duarte had taken the few hours of quiet time to walk New Orleans and figure out what he and Félix were going to do next. He didn't know if that near-miss in the alley had been intentional or not. He still didn't know who to tell about Jessup. There was nothing in the papers yet. He knew that in time the killer would expose himself. But did he have time to wait? Had he blown his chance at Jessup's house?

  He felt a sour, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as he thought about the possibilities and silently cursed himself for being so rigid and predictable. These killings were not related to a load of pot. His questions should not have been about a dead informant. There was something much bigger in the works.

  He jumped slightly at the sound of his phone.

  He flipped it open. "Duarte"

  "Alex, it's Alice."

  Before she could say anything, he said, "Send that particle reading as soon as you can."

  42

  IKE RELAXED SLIGHTLY IN A PLACE CALLED ELLIE'S INTERNET Café, about two miles from the hotel where he had left the three Charlies. He needed to check messages from Mr. Ortíz, but he really wanted to be away from those three morons for an hour or so. He had taken anything of value from the room and had the truck with him, so he didn't think they could cause much damage. Frankly, he was hoping they might steal his pair of jeans and shirts and just leave. That would solve all his problems. He'd just forget he'd ever met them.

  Inside the café he ordered a straight coffee and the pastry that most closely resembled something he had eaten before. In this case it looked like a jelly-filled croissant but had the texture of a biscuit and cost six bucks.

  The most important thing was, he had his own computer. It was an older Compaq with a grainy fifteen-inch CRT screen, one of those fat, clunky-looking, old models that he didn't think were even made any more. The connection was not that fast either. First, he surfed around the Internet a little, killing time and staying away from his hotel. He checked the local newspaper from Omaha and read all the police-blotter reports. No one he knew had caused any problems since he had left his hometown.

  He also browsed the Chicago Sun-Times. This was a habit to see if there was ever any mention of his mother or the thing that she had married. He checked the obituaries in the hopes that one day he might read that his mother had finally bought the farm. Apparently, cigarettes and Johnnie Walker Black weren't as bad for you as everyone claimed. No sign of her permanent change of address. He checked under the name that she'd used when she raised him, if that's what you could call it, and under the name she'd taken when she moved off to Chicago with the musician. He occasionally heard that they still lived together. He even wondered if, by some quirk, he had any dark-skinned half brothers or sisters.

  He also ran his name in Google and found several mentions, usually in an old newspaper column that quoted him about some rally or event he was involved in as part of the National Army of White Americans. He kept checking and found the one old article from 1995 that mentioned his arrest but left out the fact that it was for Internet child pornography. Now he told people the arrest was for kicking a cop's ass. But that was as big a lie as the rest of his life. His arrest and the subsequent deal with the devil he had made had altered his life more than he ever could have imagined. Maybe for the better, but certainly for the more anonymous. He had done something and known people for which he could never claim credit because of that arrest. No one really noticed it anymore, and it had been wiped from his record.

  He finally navigated the old computer to Yahoo and signed in. He opened the unsent message in the "saved" section and read the simple note. "Will be in Houston late tonight. All is ready. Will contact in a.m. O."

  Ike swallowed hard, knowing that the time was drawing near to go where his destiny led him. Was that an old song? He didn't know, but got a little nervous thinking about what they had in store.

  He knew that it would lead to greater security for the U.S. and that the borders would finally be shut down. The guys he had met from the Minutemen and American border guards wouldn't approve of his methods, but they sure as shit would be happy with the results. They were the ones who had given him the idea of something like this. Thinking about how irate people were becoming about immigration made it easy to say he'd help Mr. Ortíz when President Jessup called.

  Ike knew that he'd be a legend among his people and that eventually everyone would know who he was and what he had done. But now he had the very real dilemma of what it would do to him in the immediate future. Sure, Eric Rudolph avoided the FBI for five years, but he'd lived like a hobo. Ike liked his comforts and knew there would be a hell of a lot more people looking for him.

  He stared at the screen, thinking about the two paths his future could take.

  ***

  Colonel Lázaro Staub paused outside Lina Cirillo's hotel door, fantasizing about what he could do to her if they were only back in Panama. He would be under no time limits or have to worry so much about being secret. He had in his room a cargo bag and pack of garbage bags he had purchased in the small shopping plaza a few blocks from the hotel. The bag had plenty of room for a skinny woman like Lina.

  The afternoon sun had burned away all the remnants of the earlier storm, and it was really quite warm on his walk back. He was relieved when he made it through the lobby without anyone he knew seeing him.

  After he had finished with her now, he'd be back to collect the evidence and then toss it into a convenient canal on their way to Houston. There would be questions but nothing he couldn't deal with from Panama.

  He stuck his right hand in his pocket and felt the folded Benchmade knife he had also purchased. It was similar to his favorite back home. When opened, it was more than seven inches long and would terrify the normal person. That was his only question. Should he use it to terrify the FBI agent or was she too quick and strong to give any warning? He'd have to decide as events unfolded.

  He knocked on the plain door with his left hand and waited only a short time for the door to open a crack, then all the way.

  Lina stood in front of the open door. "What are you doin' here?"

  "I wanted to apologize."

  "What for?"

  "My poor manners the other night."

  She gave him a crooked smile. "That's fine."

  "I also have some information you should know."

  "What's that?"

  "May I come in?" He felt his left eye twitch. His right hand tightened on the knife in his pocket.

  She stepped aside and allowed him full access to the room.

  As he stepped inside, he noted the bed was messy on only one side and her suitcase was on the second bed. This would be sweet. But maybe not too quick. He forced himself to look out the bay window as he heard her shut the door and it automatically locked. A smile crept across his face. And he felt his penis start to stiffen. This was exactly what he needed.

  ***

  Alex Duarte leaned his head back against the headboard of his bed on the eleventh floor of the Marriott. It was the middle of the afternoon, but the way things were going and after his night in Biloxi, he needed a little rest. He could tell Félix was exhausted as well.

  After the car had nearly struck him and Lina in the alley, they'd lost interest in breakfast and never did eat.

  He was curious to find out if Alice had been able to get ICE to send the particle reading from the shipping notice. Was it connecte
d to the case?

  He thought about calling his pop, too. He was the one person who always seemed to get to the bottom of a problem. During Duarte's last big case, when he'd been looking in one direction, his father had made a simple adjustment to his vantage point. It had made all the difference. His father's counsel had always been important to him. He was surprised to see that as he got older and changed jobs from the U.S. Army to the U.S. government, he valued his father's opinion more and more. His father may have been an immigrant from Paraguay who had been a plumber for thirty years, but he had insight and knowledge that Duarte didn't think he'd ever acquire. He could reduce complex situations to simple analogies.

  As Duarte thought about calling Alice or his father, his cell phone rang. He picked up the Nextel and flipped it open.

  "Duarte."

  It was a woman's voice he didn't recognize. "Agent Duarte, open your door."

  The line went dead.

  Duarte looked at the phone and then his bolted door. He popped up from the bed quickly and then leaned toward the small desk and grabbed his SIG-Sauer model P229. He didn't even slip it in the back of his bed-wrinkled khakis. With all that had gone on in this case, he held it in his right hand.

  He stepped to the side of the door, weighing the advantages of opening it from one side or the other.

  As his left hand reached for the bolt, his right tightened on the Glock. He raised the pistol as he crouched slightly.

  His pulse increased, but he kept his head clear as he slowly unbolted the door, then let his hand settle on the handle.

  As if it had a mind of its own, his thumb depressed the door latch, and he took a breath before he yanked it open.

  43

  LINA CIRILLO CRINGED FROM THE CIGARETTE BREATH OF LÁZARO Staub. She had strategically placed a small, round table between them as she sat in a corner of the room.

  He had acted a little odd since entering, like he might be about to put the moves on her again. She knew some Latin guys just couldn't accept that a woman wasn't into them. Especially a man like Staub who had power and was not unattractive.

  In a way she was flattered he thought she was interested in him and that he thought enough of her to respond. Because of her build and profession, she was often mistaken for a lesbian. Boy, was that an incorrect assessment. She was also a little sensitive about her nose and crooked smile. Both were the result of her repeated attempts to earn a black belt in karate, which she had but only after three broken noses and a jaw injury that made her look like she was out of alignment.

  Staub said, "You know, the other night?"

  "Yes."

  He leaned closer, apparently hoping she would, too. His hands were not in front of him, so she didn't think he was going to try to molest her again.

  She leaned in slightly and he said, "I am not used to women refusing my advances."

  She smiled weakly. "You're in the big leagues now."

  "How very American of you."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  He seemed to flex slightly, but was as startled as she was when there was a knock on the door.

  Staub said, "Don't answer it."

  "Why not?" She called to the door. "One second."

  He seemed to sag back into his chair as she stood up and strode to the door quickly. It was getting a little weird in here.

  She opened the door to a sheepish Félix Baez. "Can I come in?"

  "Why?"

  "So I can apologize for acting like a dick."

  She looked him over, noticing the nice long-sleeved shirt and contrite demeanor.

  "Join the party," she said, as she stepped out of the doorway so he could see her other guest.

  As Félix stepped inside, Staub stood up. "There is plenty of room. I have another commitment. I am sorry. I was just saying my goodbyes. I will be leaving New Orleans soon to return to Panama."

  Lina turned and said, "It's been a pleasure to work with you."

  Even Félix added, "Yeah, you were a big help." He had to add, "In Panama."

  Staub nodded and shook Félix's hand, then turned and gave Lina a kiss on the forehead.

  He said, "I'm sure I'll see you again, soon."

  ***

  Alex Duarte stood next to his hotel door with his pistol raised when he jerked it open. A man dressed in a sport coat and a woman in a business suit stood completely unfazed by Duarte's actions.

  Even with the SIG-Sauer trained on them, the very attractive woman, in her late thirties, said, "Are you done?"

  Duarte stood straight and lowered the gun slightly.

  The woman made a show of slowly reaching into her giant purse and pulling out a black ID case and letting it fall open. "Meg Ruley, FBI."

  He looked at the ID and lowered the SIG-Sauer.

  The woman continued, "This is Tom McLaughlin with the Department of Energy."

  Duarte said, "This is about the particle spectrum, right?"

  "You're pretty smart," said the female FBI agent. Then added, "For an ATF agent."

  Duarte didn't bite.

  The woman said, "May we come inside and talk to you about this?"

  "Do I have a choice?"

  She just smiled, and that told Duarte everything he needed to know about her. She was a veteran, knew her stuff and didn't waste words when she didn't need to. In short, she was the real deal.

  He stepped aside and watched her as she led in the taller man from the Department of Energy. Even in a drab FBI business suit, this woman was attractive. She had neat, brown hair and a body that said she wasn't afraid to work out. The way she moved told Duarte she was confident and that he was about to be thumped by a very competent agent from another Department of Justice agency.

  Once they were in the room, the man said, "Those were most unusual readings from the sample." He had a light Southern accent. His glasses obscured heavy lids over brown eyes.

  "In what way?"

  "It was enriched U-235."

  Duarte stared, hoping not to have to admit his ignorance.

  The man picked up on it. "Fissionable uranium. Weapons grade."

  "A bomb?"

  He held up his hands. "Possibly a dirty bomb. We don't believe that a drug smuggler would have the technical capacity to arm and detonate an actual warhead. We still need a lot of info."

  "Who is 'we'?"

  The man and Agent Ruley from the FBI exchanged glances, and she said, "NEST."

  "NEST?"

  "Nuclear Emergency Search Team."

  He looked back at the man. "And you work for the DOE?"

  "And Lawrence Livermore Labs."

  "This is serious."

  "Could be. We can't take any chances."

  Duarte remained silent.

  Then the FBI agent, Meg Ruley, said, "It took a little time to track you down through the ICE idiot in the Port of Palm Beach, then your friend, Ms. Brainard."

  "Is she okay?"

  "Yeah, just in debriefing with our guys in West Palm. They all knew you and said you were okay. I was contacted to find out just what the hell is going on. As I understand it, we have an agent here, too, and someone dropped the ball."

  Duarte tried to assess the woman's intent, but, being a seasoned veteran who was also smart, she gave no sign of her intentions.

  Then Agent Ruley said, "I know the container had pot in it, but it had something else, too." She looked directly at Duarte. "What was it?"

  He said honestly, "I wish I knew."

  ***

  William "Ike" Floyd had all three of his new assistants out of the hotel room. That was a start. The younger of the three, Chuck, had left a few hours before and was just walking back to the other men standing by the big Ryder rental truck.

  Ike said, "We're going to have to go our separate ways."

  Charlie said, "Why? I thought we was helping you?"

  "Turns out you guys have no skills."

  The youngest of them, the one that had just rejoined them, said, "That's bullshit; we got plenty of ski
lls."

  "Like what?"

  "Didn't you even notice me drive back in that Ford F-150?" He pointed across the parking lot of the Jacinto Arms toward the big, two-door truck with a long bed and full camper top. He added, "I got that so we could sleep in the back if we needed."

  "It's set up with beds?"

  "Not yet. But I wanted to show you I got skills. I can start any car in the world. As long as someone leaves the door open and a key hidden someplace simple like under the bumper or in the glove compartment, I can start the fucking vehicle." He slapped a high five with his two buddies.

  Ike just stared at the scruffy younger man. What the hell was he bragging about? These idiots were really starting to embarrass him. He didn't think he could let Mr. Ortíz even meet them.

  Ike just looked at them, hoping they'd take the hint and go to their newly stolen pickup and disappear.

  Charlie said, "You been pullin' our chain since you met us."

  "How you figure?" Ike didn't like being called a liar.

  "You ain't on no big-time mission. You're probably moving some furniture or paper. You're full of shit."

  Ike flinched slightly. He didn't like these rednecks thinking they were better than him. It really bothered him that they thought he was lying. He was hesitant to show them the package in the truck, then he thought he knew what would do the trick and also give him a reason to show off to a big dog like President Jessup.

  Ike smiled and said, "I'll tell you what."

  "What?"

  "You know who Forrest Jessup is, right?"

  "Oh hell, yeah. He's the dang president of the National Army of White Americans."

  "Would you know his voice?"

  "Maybe. I'd definitely know a fake from what he says."

  Ike smiled wider. "I can call him."

  "Bullshit."

  "I'll prove it. I need a pay phone."

  "Use your cell."

  "Nope. Don't want my cell traced to his phone. Can't trace a pay phone."