“How the hell do you know my name?”
“You’ve been gone from Miami for a long time, but you haven’t been forgotten. Oh no, Mr. Volkov remembers you perfectly.”
“I’m guessing you killed Crimson, and you came here to tie off this loose end.”
“Very perceptive, Agent Lobos.”
“Thanks. Now get on your knees and put your hands behind your back.”
He chuckles and slowly backs away toward the back exit.
“The cuffs or the coffin your choice asshole.”
“You know, Volkov told me not to kill you because we don’t need the extra heat, but you leave me no choice,” he says, yanking out a CZ pistol.
I leap onto the floor behind the oak coffee table as he shoots off a couple of rounds. He tries to run for the backdoor, but I crack off a couple of shots, putting him back down behind the kitchen bar. His pistol belts off several shots; bullets tear into the top of the table, shattering a glass of water and punching dime-sized holes into the walls, blasting out the insulation. My Sig recoils, blowing out chunks of wood from the counter. His gun answers with that dreaded click sound. I stand up, vaulting over the coffee table, dashing to the kitchen. “Freeze, asshole!” I say, catching him changing mags.
“Okay, you got me, Ms. Piggy,” he says, putting his hands up.
“Face the wall and put your hands behind your back!” He shifts around. As I fasten the first cuff around his wrist, he whirls around, trapping my arm under his arm. He sprays me with mace and whacks me in the gut, throwing me over the kitchen counter with a Judo throw. I stagger to my feet, my body throbs with pain, searing agony surges through my eyes. He has me dead to rights. I’m disarmed and blinded, the assassin’s bullets are due for a meeting with my skull, but instead of a gunshot, I hear the back door slam shut.
I want to rub my eyes, but my academy training taught me that makes it worse.
I feel my way to the fridge. “Please let this bitch have milk.” I grab some kind of jug, ripping the cap off. I smell of it. Good, it’s milk. I douse my face with milk. It reduces the stinging. Despite that, my eyes are blurry, but forty-five minutes from now, I should be okay with minor redness in my eyes, which should go away in a few hours. I grab a paper towel, wiping the snot dangling from my nose and the water running from my eyes like my prom date stood me up.
SWAT training in the DEA taught us to keep our eyes open when we’re sprayed because it will sting, regardless. Still, training doesn’t stop the snot running out of your nose like a gooey waterfall and your eyes watering and getting puffy red.
About this time, I hear the boys in blue racing to my location. I take more milk and dump it on my face. Cops storm into the living room, aiming guns at me. “Police, get your ass on the ground!”
I raise my hands. “Special Agent Devora Lobos, DEA,” I say, tapping the badge on my belt.
Detective Sanz storms into the house and glances at the body of Giselle. “What the hell happened here, Agent Lobos? I require your statement.”
I stand up from the couch. “A murder I was too late to stop. That’s Giselle on the floor. The asshole OD’d her and maced me and kicked the shit out of me and split. There’s your statement.” I walk out of the door.
The Detective follows me out the door. “Wait, who did this?”
I wipe away more snot on the paper towel. “A Russian Mob hitman, that’s all I know, and he killed my only lead.” I walk past him and head to my car.
There’s no point in trying to figure out who killed her. I already know who ordered the hit; I just can’t prove it.
I’m almost at my hotel, when my cell rings, it’s the number I called earlier. “Dermot?”
“Long time, Lobos. You want to meet up still?”
“Yeah, I do. Where should we meet?”
“I have a houseboat parked at the Miami Marina over on NE 69th. That’s my home and office.”
“I’ll see you in a few minutes then.”
“I look forward to it,” he says, hanging up.
Maybe Jerry knows something. However, this bastard is not cheap with information so best make a quick stop at the ATM.
Chapter 7
12:00pm, Miami Marina
Dermot has disheveled brown hair, wrinkled red button-down shirt along with crinkly khaki pants, smoking a cigar and sipping a beer, reclining back in a chair sunbathing on his boat. Seeing the man who plastered me all over the internet makes my entire body tense with rage. I draw my gun. “I should blow your goddamn kneecaps off right now.”
He leaps from the chair, putting his hands up. “Whoa, shit! Okay, look, your ex-husband paid me a shitload of money to get that video of you. Uploading the video to a porn site was all his idea. I told him he was taking it too far and to just divorce you and be done with it. It was business, nothing personal, Lobos.”
I shove him, and he falls through the door on his boat. “I should put one in your balls and show you just how personal it was.”
He nervously gestures with his right hand. “Hey, I get it; you look like you’ve had a bit of a day, but you want my help? Put the damn gun down and stop living in the past.”
I holster my weapon. Unfortunately, he’s right; living in the past won’t solve this damn case or save my brother.
He rises to his feet and fixes the collar on his button-down. “Welcome to my office, please come aboard.” I step down into the cabin. He walks over to his minibar. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“You got scotch?” I say, walking over to the sink, tossing more water in my eyes.
“Just Tequila.”
Shit, I hate Tequila, but I’m not turning down free booze.
“Tequila will do.”
He passes me a glass of Tequila on ice and sits down in a chair across from me, taking a sip of his drink, grinning. “You know, your body is a work of art, and your tits perfectly shaped along with your shapely ass. You should wear clothes that compliment your frame.”
“Before I cripple you, you may want to decide what color you want your cane to be.”
“Relax, babe. It’s a compliment, Jesus! I wasn’t taking a jab.”
My jaw tightens. “Relax? Jerry, I’ve had the shit kicked out of me and sprayed with OC spray; my face is on fire. Stop the fucking flattery and tell me what you know about the Harvesters?” my voice raises.
“Well, now I just don’t know, it depends on how much money you got?”
Still greedy as ever, but that’s not all he is; he also fabricates evidence on people for a hefty price: he has swayed local elections in the past.
“This info better be fucking worth it. I got 200 bucks cash.”
“You know my disclaimer: It’s not my fault if you deem the information useless.”
“You should’ve been a con man rather than a PI,” I say, giving him 200 bucks.
“Gracias, sister.”
“Okay, I’m your personal Wikipedia now.”
“I want to know about the Harvesters and Volkov.”
He leans forward. “I’m not going to give you info, but I will give you some friendly life tips that’s worth its weight in gold. Don’t go poking around this town asking questions about the Harvesters. It’s bad for your health.”
“Jerry, after what you did to me, you owe me information at least.”
“I owe you!” He chuckles. “No, I more than paid my debt for me filming you getting bent over the couch. Four cracked ribs, a dislocated jaw. Compliments of your siblings in blue.”
I turn my head to the side, staring at him, puzzled. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Oh, you didn’t hear well; after your little slap on the wrist and relocation, your fellow cops saw fit to beat my ass into the concrete with their batons and leave me for dead in a dumpster. So I don’t owe you shit! Messing with you has already fucked my life.” He gulps down the liquor and launches from the chair. “So I don’t need to commit suicide by helping you with The Harvesters.”
; “You brought that beat down on yourself. Now sit down!” I shove him down into the chair.
“Jesus Christ, Devora. I see you still have anger issues.” He stares at me, shaking his head. “You realize there is no happy fucking ending with the Harvesters and Volkov, right? The last cop who went up against them ended up with his body emptied and dumped in the swamp. And if they find out I talked to you, it’ll be my ass emptied and tossed to the fucking gators. Judging by your face, you look like you’ve been warned, so why don’t you quit while you’re ahead.”
“Jerry. My brother is mixed up in this, so I will take this to whatever level I need to, to get the info I need out of you,” I reach in my pocket and flick out my switchblade.
“What the fuck! Are you a DEA or a Psychopath?”
“You don’t give me what I paid for; you’ll find out which.”
“If your brother is associated with the Harvesters, I’d say forget him. It’s his own fucking fault.”
“I can’t do that. He’ll go to prison for the rest of his life.”
He places both his fingers on his forehead. “Let me see if I understand this. Your brother is Raul, the lead singer in the Hellraisers, right?”
“Yes.”
“And the DEA agent he’s fucking was murdered after she left his apartment? Presumably by Volkov’s people.”
“How do you have those details? We didn’t release that to the media.”
He lowers his head, twisting his mouth upward. “You feds are not as secure as you think. So he bangs a DEA agent, and she ends up dead after she leaves his home.”
“Yes.”
“I got news for you, sister; he’s fucked.”
“Not if I can prove it was all the Harvesters, and he had nothing to do with it.”
He busts out, laughing. “For a Detective, you’re stupid. You know, even if you prove it wasn’t him, the DEA is going to burn them all down; being a DEA, you know what happens when a fellow agent is killed, they adopt a scorched earth policy, everybody burns.” He takes a sip of his drink and relights his cigar. “Trust me. You’re better off getting him out of the country where he can’t be extradited, but that won’t help you because then Volkov will find him.”
I smirk at him. “Bullshit, you’re just too chicken shit to give me info.”
“Fine, you wanna throw yourself on the sword for him, be my guest.”
I look down the sights of my gun. “Talk damn it!”
“First thing you need to know is the Harvesters consist of three professional surgeons, and the Russians pay them a percentage of the profits they get from body parts and the Russians pretty much own Miami they got friends in high places.”
A team of three surgeons, I figured it was professionals.
“How high?”
“Like our beloved Mayor, to be specific. Trust me, sweetheart, Raul is DOA fucked either way you dice it, and so are you if you don’t forget this and go back to Tampa PD.”
“I can’t just abandon him. He’s family.”
He laughs and claps his hands sarcastically. “Devora Lobos, her brother’s keeper. Listen to me, family’s overrated. It just fucks us over in the end. Just look at my sister, who, despite all the stuff she’s done to the family, she’s still daddy’s little princess who can’t do no wrong. You want my advice? Let your brother burn. Don’t martyr yourself for family. They won’t do the same for you.”
“Spare me your sagely advice and give me names and addresses of these surgeons.”
“Names are gonna cost ya extra, Agent Lobos.”
“I got a gun on you, and you’re trying to squeeze me for more cash?”
He flashes a sly grin. “You shoot me, and you’ll never know. So you’re in a bit of a catch twenty-two.”
“How much, you prick?”
“Well, I saw a thousand bucks in your wallet. So, uh, that’ll do.” I dig into my wallet and pull out a thousand bucks and give it to him. He counts it.
I rarely carry a lot of cash, but considering Jerry’s penchant for greed, I felt it was appropriate.
“Hey! It’s all there, you greedy bastard.”
“I have to be sure, Devora. I didn’t start extorting yesterday.”
If I didn’t need info, I’d told him to go to hell.
“Okay, it’s all here.”
“Alright, now out with the names.”
“I only know one of them.”
I clench my jaw, gripping my gun tightly. “For a thousand fucking dollars, you better know more than one name!”
“Look, these people are ghosts. I stumbled upon this name by accident, but if the Russians or Harvesters knew I knew one of their names, I’d be dead already.”
“Fine, give me the one name, Mr. Rip off.”
“His name is Doctor Jon C. Merryweather.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He has a practice on Normandy Isle.”
“What the fuck? He’s a practicing physician?”
He shrugs. “They have to look legit.”
“Got it.” I turn and head back to my car.
“Hey, Devora, if you want to do more business, just let me know. I can always use the money.”
I flip him off. “All that greed’s gonna kill your ass one day, Jerry.”
He laughs briefly. “Another satisfied customer.”
Whether it was the milk reeking in the Miami heat or it was the stench of Dermot staining the inside of my nose either way I need to wash the stench off me.
Chapter 8
Blue Dolphin Resort
Raul is sitting at the desk, staring at the floor, sobbing. He looks up at me. “Jesus, Devi. What happened to you?”
I stare at him with burning rage. “I walked in on a Russian hitman killing Giselle, and he attacked me.”
“I am so sorry, hermana.”
He’s sorry, alright, a sorry piece of shit.
“You will be if I can’t get you out of this hole you’ve dug.” I grab my bag and head to the bathroom.
I hold my face under the stream of water, careful to not let it run down my body and into my cooch where it can really burn. That already happened to me once in the Army. I have no desire for a re-run. I change into a pair of cargo pants and a black button-down. Staring in the mirror, my eyes still look irritated from the OC spray. At least my skin is not on fire anymore.
“Devi!” Raul calls out.
“What!” I say, sitting down in front of him, slipping on a pair of clean socks.
“Listen, if you want to catch Radomir, let me perform tomorrow.”
“No. It’s too risky.”
“I hate to side against you, Devora, but you know this was Tanner’s plan all along. It would benefit the investigation if Raul kept up appearances. Your brother sitting here in handcuffs is killing this case slowly.”
“I’ll be damned if my little brother is going to be the DEA’s personal shark bait.”
“Listen, Devi. I know you always stood up for me growing up, and I appreciate that, but right now, I don’t need you to stand up for me; I need you to stand aside.”
I rest my arms on my knees and lean forward and sigh. “Raul, all it takes is for Volkov to get paranoid, and you’re dead.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’ve seen him just suspect one of his own men of snitching, and he beat him to death with a sledgehammer. Please… let me clean up my messes for once; you or dad don’t have to clean up my mess anymore.”
I glower at him. “Fine, un-cuff him, but I want you watching him, Donovan. I don’t want some stick up his ass rookie.”
“Devora, Tanner has made me his handler, so I’ll be watching him, and if shit goes sour, I’ll pull him out.”
“Roy, if anything happens to my brother, your ass’ll answer to me.”
“I understand, Lobos.”
“Good.”
“Did you gain anything useful from that PI?”
“Just a name of one Harvester and how they and the Russians are connected to t
he Mayor of Miami.”
“The Mayor? Shit makes you wonder why even bother voting sometimes.” He shakes his head. “I can’t fathom why the hell the mayor would mix up with those sick fucks. I mean, the mayor is a big altruist and philanthropist.”
I’m wary of so-called philanthropists; most of the time, it’s to cover up some really evil shit. On one of my old cases, I had a serial killer who was a life coach for children with disabilities. At night, he raped and strangled blondes to death in their homes. Sometimes he would cut out their eyes just for variety.
After slipping my shoes on, I turn to him with a raised eyebrow. “I guess some people don’t want to be on the waiting list for an organ transplant,” I say, lighting a smoke.
“And my wife says I should have a more positive outlook on the world.”
Sounds like his wife needs to come out of her land of unicorn farts and rainbows.
“Your wife has her head up her ass,” I say, exhaling smoke.
“What’s the Harvester’s name?” He ignores the comment about his wife completely.
“Doctor Jon C. Merryweather. He’s got a medical office over on Normandy Island near the golf course. That’s where I’m going.”
“You sure you want to go alone?”
“I’ll be fine. Besides, I was alone when I was undercover in the cartel, and I was alone when I took down The Aztec.”
The Aztec was a ruthless serial killer who plagued beachgoers by kidnapping them and doing some Aztec ritual before cutting out their hearts and eating them.
“You keep my brother alive. I mean it!”
“I will, Devi.”
“I hope so,” I say, leaving the hotel.
***
Coming off the Kennedy Causeway, I get a call from Tanner. “Go ahead, sir.”
“Devi, give me an update on your investigation.”
“Well, as you no doubt have heard by now, Russian hitmen killed X-man and Giselle. However, the PI gave me the name of one of the Harvester suspects.”
“Give me their name.”
“His name is Doctor Jon C Merryweather. He’s got an office on Normandy Isle near the Normandy shores golf course.”
The Harvesters Page 4
