The Fourth Gunman

by John Lansing

  Elli audibly groaned when the manager signaled the bullpen and a lanky blond headed out to the mound and tossed a few warm-up pitches while the rest of the team took the field.

  It was all part of the game, Jack understood. But it never felt good when it happened to his son.

  Stanford lost, four to two.

  Chris tried to put on a happy face as he met up with Jack and Elli. And Jack said he understood when Chris begged off dinner. Jack hugged his son and was surprised when Elli, who stood a foot shorter than Jack, gave him a low bear hug. They had shared an emotional moment, and Jack returned the hug before heading back to the marina.

  * * *

  The night sky was black, the star field dynamic, and the cratered half-moon the only light on the horizon. Rafi, the Indonesian captain, stood at the bridge. Coordinates were set and the trawler was running on autopilot. Trent and Roxy sat at a scarred wooden table sharing a bottle of chardonnay, physically trashed from the dissipating rush of the day. Rafi excused himself with a smile and broken English and stepped out, leaving Trent at the helm to keep an eye out for passing freighters.

  Roxy finished her wine and, as she poured a second glass, said, “He’s been gone too long.”

  Trent grabbed a fishing knife off the table on his way out the door, and Roxy took his place at the helm. He ran silently toward their temporary cabin, which had been locked. The door was open a crack, and he could see the corner of the containment box and Rafi holding one of the radioactive bundles in his bare hands.

  Rafi’s head swiveled as he listened for a sound. All clear, he thought as he placed the fuel rod back into the lead box and quickly closed the lid. As he threw the latch, Trent kicked the door open. Startled, Rafi straightened.

  Trent buried the razor-sharp blade into the captain’s neck, just above his spine, and pulled the door closed. He could hear a dull thud as Rafi slammed onto the containment box and rolled to the ground.

  Trent ran back to the bridge, saying, “We’ve got a situation,” which Roxy read as “The captain is dead.”

  Trent grabbed his level-A protective suit out of his backpack and stepped into it. “Text Sukarno: we’ll need a cleanup crew before we hit the dock.” Roxy jumped into action, helped fasten the airtight suit, and then went for her phone. Trent ran out looking like a crazed techie on a hazmat team.

  He grabbed a gaff from the trawler’s stern. The six-foot pole with a sharp hook on its end was used to land big fish. It would now be used to dispose of Rafi.

  Trent opened the door to the cabin and saw the captain, dead on his back. His jaw slack, open mouth exposing brown and broken teeth, face frozen in surprise. Blood spatters painted the top of the lead containment box.

  Trent hooked Rafi’s foot with the gaff and pulled him out onto the deck. He caught his breath, pulled the knife from the captain’s neck, and rolled the slight man over the side of the trawler to splash down into the dark water below.

  Trent dragged the heavy box onto the deck and used the gaff to pull his wet suit, his phone, and Roxy’s change of clothes out of the cabin before snapping off the light and shutting the door. He tossed the weapon, electronics, and all of their contaminated personal belongings overboard along with the gaff. He grabbed a hose off the fishing table on the aft and carefully sprayed himself down. Then he went to work on the container and his bloody footsteps on the deck.

  Trent stepped cautiously out of his white protective suit, threw it overboard, and watched it billow, float, and then get sucked into the water, disappearing like an apparition in the trawler’s foamy wake.

  Fifteen

  Day Eight

  Jack walked out of the coffee shop with two cups, black, and headed up Abbot Kinney toward Mateo’s stakeout position.

  Mateo had followed Rusty into Beverly Hills, where he was joined by the East Coast crew, Cardona, Peter, and Frankie-the-Man. The coffee klatch in the Chop House lasted all of forty-five minutes, and he snapped a photo of Rusty wearing a satisfied smirk and walking toward his car with a heavy leather satchel. Mateo smelled money and followed Rusty into Venice, where he disappeared inside a pop-up store near the sushi joint Wabi-Sabi. He hit Jack with a 999 text and his location, a block from the intersection of Palms and Abbot Kinney with a clear view of the location.

  Jack slid into Mateo’s rental, a black seven-series BMW, and burned his hand passing the scalding coffee. “Hot?” Mateo asked. “I did a walk-by, and it looks like they’re selling hand-crafted soaps.”

  “Must be a lot of dirt in Venice to afford the rent on this street. I think the shop’s heavy, and we know where Cardona cleans some of his cash.”

  One of Jack’s specialties on the NYPD had been taking down money-laundering cells. He and Mateo, who worked as his confidential informant, had taken the cartels for millions of dollars. They’d set up shop, launder a million dollars to prove their bona fides, and then set up a sting and confiscate the next two million without anyone being the wiser. All the while digging deeper into the cartel’s hierarchy.

  “There are three of them inside,” Mateo said. “Rusty’s girlfriend met him curbside when he pulled up. There must be a back room, because when I did the walk-by, Rusty and his squeeze were nowhere to be seen, and there were no customers to block my view. Just one cute woman working the cash register. Why do they always get beautiful women to count the cash?”

  “Because they can,” Jack said.

  “That’s his Jag in front. I’ll bet it’s registered to his woman.”

  “Stay on him—” Jack was cut short as two gray government-issue sedans roared past and skidded to a stop in front of the shop. Two more cars sped down Palms, one car blocked the intersection, and an agent jumped out and ran to the back of the building, while the second unit slid around the corner and came to a chattering stop. Two more vehicles peeled off of Venice Boulevard and blocked the egress out of the pop-up store.

  Eight FBI agents deployed, weapons raised, swarming the shop.

  “What the hell,” Jack said as his cell phone beeped a text message from Agent Hunter, the only person he’d talked to about his issues with Rusty beside his team. And then a second 911 text alerting him of the impending raid. Perfect setup, he thought, trying to keep his anger in check, and ignored both texts. “This is going to come back to bite me in the ass.”

  * * *

  “Oh my God, Rusty, I fucking warned you . . .” his girlfriend squealed as shouted voices alerted them the FBI were on the premises.

  “Shut up,” Rusty hissed as he threw the lock on the door to the storefront and grabbed the bag of cash out of her hands.

  The locked door exploded off its hinges as Rusty bolted out the back.

  The panicked gangster was stopped in his tracks, staring down the gun barrel of a federal agent. Rusty dropped the bag of cash, raised his hands, assumed the position, and as the agent pulled out his cuffs, the gangster juked and ran straight into the fist of a backup agent who had circled up Palms. The first agent yanked Rusty off the pavement, threw him against the bricks, opening a gash on his forehead, and patted him down, pulling a 9mm out of Rusty’s shoulder rig.

  The second fed picked up the leather satchel and the two agents muscled the bleeding man down Palms, jerked him around the corner, and joined the rest of the team inside the store as the growing crowd on Abbot Kinney took selfies and video of the arrest.

  * * *

  “Should I drive?” Mateo asked.

  “I want to see who else shows up when they report in.”

  No sooner had Jack spoken than another gray sedan turned off Venice Boulevard and pulled to a silent stop in front of the store.

  Special Agent Ted Flannery stepped out of the car. Tailored suit, mirrored sunglasses that raked up and down Abbot Kinney, looking at the stunned shopowners, the tourists snapping pictures, and the growing traffic jam. Looking for anything out of the ordinary before disappearing inside the storefront.

  “I’m taking off,” Jack said, his voice deadly calm,
fighting to control his emotions until he’d played out all the possible ramifications of the raid and was rational enough to plan his next move. “I want you to stay put, see if anybody else was in the back room of the shop. I’ll catch you later.” He stepped out and blended with the crowd, away from the action.

  * * *

  Jack was sitting at a picnic table on the side of a taco stand on Lincoln Boulevard near Whole Foods, finishing off the first of three seafood tacos, when a shadow crossed his plate. He didn’t look up.

  “At least one of us has an appetite,” Agent Hunter said, getting no response. “I tried to warn you.”

  “Timing was suspect.”

  “Look, Jack,” she said, and took the bench opposite him. “I know this looks bad, but think it through—what would I have to gain by making your job tougher?”

  “Well, Liz, some people can’t deal with the truth.”

  “I can’t live without it.”

  “Then who told Flannery that Rusty was on my radar screen? That he took over Luke’s position on the Bella Fortuna?”

  “Jack, we’ve been on to Rusty for a year and a half. Luke got caught in a hijacking that went bad. The driver of the sixteen- wheeler was armed and open-fired on the crew. Rusty shot the driver dead and Luke drew his weapon but didn’t fire. Rusty smelled a rat and never got over it. And when Luke got the nod from Cardona to move up the ranks, things went from bad to worse.”

  “So you’ve got him on two counts. Murder two—manslaughter, maybe—and money laundering.”

  “We’ll save the shooting for the one-two punch. See if we can turn him.”

  “I’m not optimistic,” Jack said, “but you never know. The Mafia code of silence isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Now I’m going to share something that could mean my career if it came to light that we spoke on the subject.” No response from Jack. “This is where you reassure me I don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “You need something to drink?” Jack asked instead.

  “They don’t serve what I need.”

  Jack’s humorless expression and raised eyebrows told her to continue.

  “Ted Flannery was surveilling you. Outside your building last night.”

  Jack did a slow burn.

  Liz Hunter soldiered on. “He has photos of you leaning into Angelica Cardona’s convertible, kissing her goodbye.” Hunter let that sink in before dropping the other shoe. “And he wasn’t the only one interested in your personal life. Cardona’s man Peter Maniacci was in a black RAV4. He also captured the moment. The prelude to the kiss must have been something, Jack, because you were oblivious to your surroundings, and you don’t do oblivious.”

  Jack took the two uneaten tacos and dropped them into the overfilled garbage can. He took a sip of soda, his eyes searing into Agent Hunter’s. “So the FBI is again worried about my loyalties.”

  “That’s a piece of it.”

  “And Vincent Cardona knows, and I’m thinking he’s second-guessing giving me carte blanche on his gambling boat.”

  “That’s the other piece. I’d watch my back, and I’ll understand if you want off the job.”

  “Why did Flannery drop the hammer on Rusty? He had to know it would muddy the play.”

  “He didn’t see it that way. Rattle their cage and keep you on your toes. He’s worried. He’s not saying, at least to me, but if it turns out Luke was dirty, Ted’s career stalls, and I’ll be shipped to a storefront office in Montana. This way he can squeeze Rusty and leave Cardona intact. Shake up the play with you in place to decipher the pieces.”

  “A dangerous game.”

  “Like I said, watch your back.”

  Jack took a swig of Diet Coke and rolled that around. Finally asking, “What is it you want?”

  “It hasn’t changed for me. I need to know what happened to my brother. And I want you to come out of this alive. My number is still open to you twenty-four/seven. Don’t be shy. I’ll fill in as many blanks as I can and run interference with Ted when necessary.” Liz handed Jack a hefty manila envelope. “Here’s everything you asked for. Let me know what else I can do.”

  “I need to know what you find in Rusty’s apartment and his girlfriend’s. My hands are tied while he’s in custody, and there’s going to be blowback with Cardona’s crew.”

  Agent Liz Hunter stared at Jack for an extended beat, slid on her mirrored sunglasses, and walked to her car.

  There was something about Hunter that got under Jack’s skin. He made a mental note to take her advice and keep his eyes wide open; he worried that he might be losing his edge. The Vicodin, wine, and sex last night. He’d gotten too loose and might have jeopardized the case. It wouldn’t happen again. He vowed to cut back on the wine.

  * * *

  The peace Jack usually felt sitting on the deck of his boat eluded him. Flannery had moved a piece on the chessboard at Jack’s expense, jeopardizing his team in the process. It was an ego-based decision, provocative and dangerous. Jack was on high alert as he read through the intel Agent Hunter had provided.

  Cruz was stationed in the cabin, eyeballing the Bella Fortuna. Jack had been sure there’d be action from Cardona’s family after the news of Rusty’s arrest hit the airwaves, and just as Mateo stepped onto the boat, Cruz shouted from the cabin, “They’re here.”

  Cruz snapped digital photos as two town cars pulled to a stop near the gangplank. Frankie-the-Man jumped out of his car and opened the back door for Cardona and Mickey Razzano. The second car’s doors swung open and Peter, cousin Jimmy, and two of Uncle Mickey’s bodyguards stepped out. Their car dipped from side to side as the two beefy gunmen slid out, hand-ironed their sport jackets, and followed their bosses. There was a chill in the air as Caroline Boudreau met the men at the top of the gangplank, welcomed them aboard, and led them into the main salon.

  Cruz joined Mateo and Jack on the deck of the cabin cruiser after Cardona’s men boarded the yacht.

  Mateo flashed a tight grin. “I received a text from Caroline a few minutes ago telling me she was having visitors and it might be wise to keep a safe distance.”

  “You’re a player,” Jack said.

  “We all have our areas of expertise.”

  Jack tried but couldn’t work up a grin. He knew he had to face the lion and let her rip. “Gentlemen, I fucked up big-time. Angelica Cardona paid me a visit the other night. That wasn’t the fuckup. But when I walked her to the car and kissed her good night, I missed Peter Maniacci and Agent Flannery. They both captured the moment on film, and I missed it. It may be why Flannery dropped the hammer on Rusty, and there will be blowback from Cardona.”

  “Give yourself a break, Jack,” Mateo said. “That is one hell of a woman.”

  “I second that,” Cruz said.

  Jack rifled through his reports, trying to get his train of thought back on track, thankful for these men. “I got Trent’s backstory when I questioned him on board. He didn’t mention being forced to leave JPL. It seems that high-clearance, classified documents disappeared on his watch, but culpability couldn’t be proved. The feds never tied him to any wrongdoing, but he was given his walking papers, and he fell off their radar screen. That’s when he made a career change and hit the open seas. Love to know what kind of documents went missing.”

  “He was right on, describing Sukarno and his link to the Bella Fortuna,” Mateo said. “Sukarno Lei is a technical genius. His start-up technology company was grossing a hundred mil when the guy was in his early twenties. Two years after the company went public, he sold out to a Chinese conglomerate for a half a billion in cash and stock options worth twice that. He made the Forbes list of highest earners that year. Bought the island he was born on in Indonesia, spends his time there, and travels the globe. And as we both know, he’s fond of gambling and hates to lose but does it prodigiously, thank you very much.”

  “Okay, Trent gets points for that,” Jack said. “Now, Roxy appears to have had sexual relations with Luke. The only sh
ipboard tryst we’ve uncovered to date. We don’t know if Trent was aware or, if he was, what that means. It could be nothing, but if he discovered the affair, it’s motive enough for a jealous man to commit murder.”

  “A crime of passion,” Mateo added knowingly, as if he’d made a few quick escapes himself.

  Jack flipped through the files and grabbed one. The men could see a black-and-white photo of Roxy stapled to the top. “It says she spent a year in Afghanistan as a signal support communications expert. High marks from her superiors, and then mustered out under suspicious circumstances. The army is typically vague about it, but her commanding officer states personal family problems and leaves it at that.”

  “Maybe someone died?” Cruz said.

  Jack shook his head. “Possibly, but that generally isn’t enough. You might get a couple weeks’ sick leave for family care or bereavement purposes, but not a full discharge. I’ll ask when she’s back from Mexico. Anything interesting in the Russian’s background?”

  “His name’s Vasily Barinov,” Cruz said. “Not clear if he’s mobbed up. Only thirty hits on Google. His father was a Russian oligarch in the nineties. Made millions selling oil futures and bought his own company while Boris Yeltsin was in power and oil was king. Everything was sweet until Putin took over. Young Barinov, who’d taken the reins of the family business, wasn’t a big fan of Putin, and the feeling was mutual. It looks like Barinov was one step ahead of the sickle, got out of town with a bag full of cash, his head on his neck, and never looked back.”

  “Good work, Cruz. This is where I give you the opportunity to walk away.”

  “What?” Startled by the question.

  “You are a major asset to our organization, but the play has changed, and if you want out, I’ll understand. There’s no losing face; I told you I’d do my best to keep you out of the thick of it, and I’ll always have your back, but things are getting dicey.”