by Alan Lee
“I forgot to feed her. Sorry.”
“She told me. I did it.”
Kix pressed his face hard into my shoulder and moved it back and forth, getting tears on my shirt, the monster. I bounced him.
“Any luck?” said Timothy.
“I got the plane’s license plate. But not the destination.”
“Will that help?”
“Maybe. I got an idea. It’s risky, but I’m running low on time. Soon caution will be thrown to the wind.”
“I have an idea too.” Timothy stood from the rocking chair. He stretched his back. “I understand that you don’t want the sheriff involved, because that’ll get too many mouths talking. But I can help. I’m a local principal, so the administration will trust me. I’m taking tomorrow off and we’ll divide the schools. Between us, we can canvas the entire area."
“You know, Dad…” I said.
“It could work, right?”
“I think it could. I accept.”
He nodded and I felt his release of tension. Sometimes accepting help is a way to help the person offering it. It’s a gift to them. People other than me loved Ronnie.
He said, “I’m going to bed. I’ll start bright and early. I’ll take the southern schools, and I’ll give you my list.”
“Perfect.”
“Before I turn in, something’s on my mind. If you and Darren meet again, what will you do?”
“Kill him,” I said.
“No you won’t, son. What will you really do?”
“You don’t think I will?”
“I don’t think you can. Even in a rage, I’m not sure your trigger finger will obey. Not unless he’s got a gun pointed at you or Veronica.”
“Shooting someone,” I said, “is different in practice than in theory. That’s true.”
“And you don’t want to arrest him. The son of a bitch will have nothing left to lose so he’ll expose Veronica’s history of secrets.”
“You’re assuming Ronnie’s still alive,” I said.
“We both are.”
“I think we have to.”
“So what will you do?” he said.
“I don’t know. Right now I’m going to drink this bourbon and get Kix to sleep.”
“One step at a time, I guess.” Timothy said it through a yawn.
“That’s all I know how to do.”
“But you’re good at it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I am.”
Tuesday Night
Manny
Manny’s eyes hurt. He wasn’t accustomed to staring at computer screens for hours, but that’s what he’d been doing. Sitting on a bed, eating room service, drinking gin, and staring at a screen.
The gmail account Noelle uncovered had been largely abandoned after Darren’s ‘death.’ He was trying to create a clean break. But by searching the emails he was forwarding to himself, she discovered a new email address for his new life. He’d used a new password, but it was a variation of the old and it quickly cracked. That new account, plus a secondary hotmail account, were still active.
She and Manny read through hundreds of emails. Beck was building a database to cross reference email addresses and phone numbers and names.
A picture was coming into focus.
Darren Robbins had finagled his way into prosecuting most federal cases involving the Kings’ network, and he got them reduced sentences or he dropped the charges. To remain above suspicion, he tried cases viciously that didn’t involve his cohorts. A cocaine trafficker working for the Kings would get off on a technicality. A cocaine trafficker working for someone else would go away for twenty years. As a result, his reputation and his usefulness to the US Attorney remained intact.
Darren also arranged sordid deals to let prostitution traffickers go free. In exchange, he was cut in on the action. Based on the emails and photos, it was clear he maintained a stable of girls he brought to private underworld parties. He’d set up a system in the apartment above his own. Plus he booked rooms at hotels and invited powerful Washington players to stay with the girls for an hour or a night. It made him money, but more importantly it made him friends.
He’d done most of the work freelance, earning several warnings from the Kings. In the angry correspondence, Darren claimed he was doing it for the ‘enterprise’ and he funneled money back into their system.
Manny could tell, after reading through dozens of exchanges, that Darren was tolerated—not prized or welcomed in the inner circle of the Kings. He was one of them, and he’d earned a little respect, but it wasn’t a happy arrangement.
Things had fallen apart last year when Ronnie quit. His clients became disillusioned or worse. He lost a lot of his power. He tried compensating in other ways, growing more and more unbearable.
Manny and Beck were reading between the lines and vaguely fitting puzzle pieces together, because most of the history had happened in person or over phone calls.
So far they’d been unable to find a cell number for Darren, his new one. He simply had never typed it out in an email.
If they had that, they could trace him. Manny and Beck scoured the accounts for hints about where he was currently, but found nothing. He was off the grid, living on cash or using new cards.
But at least they knew a few things for certain, from the emails.
Darren was rich. Soon, after the liquidation of his assets and the disbursement of his life insurance, he’d be richer.
He had a new identity, complete with foreign passports.
He’d purchased an island in the Batangas region of the Philippines for three million dollars. It was developed and ready to receive him.
He’d been buying sports equipment, like balls, bats, gloves, and golf clubs off sites like Amazon and having them sent to the Philippines.
Recently Darren had begun sending demoralizing emails.
He’d upped his offer to Hal New if the shooter would kill Mackenzie and Manuel next week, no questions asked. Hal New hadn’t replied.
He’d also exchanged messages with an unknown person, indicating the woman would be dead soon.
Who was the woman? Ronnie? Or maybe his ex-wife?
The most frustrating thing was, they found nothing about MS-13. Zip. There was plenty of things they didn’t understand, but no correspondence mentioned the gang.
Manny and Beck hadn’t spoken in an hour. They were reading through emails for a third time, blearily hunting for clues they might’ve missed and feeling the weight of Ronnie’s plight bear down.
Before midnight, both their machines dinged. A new email. To Darren.
From: [email protected]
still on, tmrrw??
“Darren just got a late email from Carlos. In his new account.”
“I see it.” Manny said it in a croak. “Who’s Carlos?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tomorrow. What happens tomorrow?”
“Wednesday. I haven’t read anything about Wednesday. Have I?” She performed a search. Scanned the results. “Wednesday… Carlos. Hm. Carlos, anonymous mail… Here we go. Darren and ‘Carlos’ communicated twice before. Two weeks ago.”
Manny searched and the results popped onto his screen.
Darren had emailed Carlos fifteen days ago. There’d been no reply.
To: [email protected]
ARUT 991254 9 45G1
It’ll be blue.
He’d emailed Carlos again, thirteen days ago.
To: [email protected]
Your ICTF guy uses his flashlight.
Three clicks.
Our security guy responds. Three clicks.
You’ll have less than ten minutes.
Darren had received an immediate reply.
From: [email protected]
no, 2 dangerous, dumping at pilot
“I read these emails three times previously,” she said. “They were as cryptic as everything else, and I didn’t know what they meant.”
“S
till on for tomorrow,” Manny wondered to himself and he sucked lightly at his teeth. “Tomorrow. Using flashlights to communicate means an operation at night. ”
While they watched, Darren sent Carlos a reply. He was logged into his email from some other location, unaware he was being monitored.
To: [email protected]
I assume so.
I’m dead, remember? I’m out of the loop.
Good luck.
Don’t email me again. I’ll contact you.
“Good luck,” Manny mumbled. “Good luck with what?”
“Earlier I googled ARUT and that long code. Nothing concrete came up. By that I mean, there were too many possibilities, so I moved on.” Her fingers began pounding on the keys.
Manny skimmed the emails again.
ICTF guy, Darren said. What’s ICTF?
Manny searched ICTF and scanned the results.
International Credit and Trade Finance.
Intermodal Container Transfer Facility.
International Capture the Flag.
Iraqi Counter Terrorism Force.
And more. Too many options.
But most of the searches had to do with a railroad. ICTF was an entity that moved cargo around the States on railways. He kept clicking and scanning and hmm’ing to himself.
After a pause, Beck said, “I got something, Sinatra. I’m breaking down that bizarre digit combination. 45G1 is the standard code used to designate a type of forty-foot shipping container. The kind carried by massive cargo freighters.”
“Those big containers brought from overseas on a boat.”
“Right,” she said.
“The shipping containers are transferred to a train?”
“Or a tractor-trailer.”
Manny typed, searched, and read the results. “Those big ass containers are called intermodal.”
“Correct. 45G1 is a type of intermodal container. And ARUT 991254 9 45G1, those digits align with the ISO standard. That’s the identification of an intermodal shipping container,” she said. “Darren was giving Carlos the ID of a specific container.”
Manny swiveled his screen so Beck could see it. “Ay, get this. ICTF. That’s a group that moves intermodal shipping containers around the country on railways.”
Beck read his screen.
He said, “In the email, Carlos said, Your ICTF guy.”
She nodded. “Which means Carlos, whoever he is, has a contact with ICTF. And Darren wants him to communicate with…what’d he say?” She read the emails again. “He said, Our security guy. Darren’s connecting Carlos’s ICTF contact to the Kings’ security contact?”
Manny nodded. “Maybe. But this is after Darren’s death. Está muerto. He’s out of the Kings. Why would he still be facilitating cargo transfers?”
“Why would Darren have anything to do with cargo at all? He was an attorney and pimp,” said Beck. “And what does dumping at pilot mean?”
Manny stood and paced the room, hands on his hips. He often did that at night, barefoot, wearing slacks and a white t-shirt. On those occasions, Noelle kept her gaze firmly fixed on the screen. No reason to tempt fate by gazing at the most perfect man the good Lord had ever created. She twisted the top off a water bottle and drank.
“Carlos,” said Manny. “A Hispanic name. MS-13, maybe.”
Beck was typing. “The shipping container could potentially be part of an MS-13 operation.”
“I doubt it. MS-13 is more like hired muscle. Idiotas. Blue collar workers. And Darren would not already have access to the gang’s inner workings.”
“Maybe Darren’s still helping the Kings?”
Manny shook his head. “I doubt that too.”
“I agree. They didn’t part ways on the best terms.”
“So we don’t know who Carlos is. And we don’t know who the shipping container belongs to. Or where it is. Or where it’s going. Or who the pilot is.”
Beck said, “Or if it has anything to do with MS-13. Or with Veronica and Mackenzie.”
“Call Rocky.”
She pressed her mouth into a grim line. She set her bottle down. “I was thinking that too. He owns a shipping company.”
“It’s possible Darren’s stealing from him.”
“Sinatra, we’re really wading in deep here. How far can we invade the Kings’ territory before they decide enough’s enough? If we just uncovered a fraction of their operation…” she said.
“You think your boyfriend will kill you?”
“Of course not. But I’m less confident of his cohorts.”
“Trust your own cohort, miga.” He jerked a thumb at himself. “One reason Mackenzie’s still alive, they know I’ll kill them all. Same goes for you.”
“It does?”
“Of course. I’m around, no one touches you.”
She smiled to herself. “That’s nice to know.”
“Make the call.”
“We’re good friends, Sinatra.”
He scowled. “Focus, Beck. Call Rocky.”
“We’re friends whether you admit it or not.”
“Ay, caramba, get ahold of yourself.”
“Am I your best friend, other than Mackenzie?”
Manny snatched her water bottle from the nightstand. Unscrewed the top and held the bottle over her head. “Last chance before I hose you down. Focus.”
“Okay!” She squirmed across the bed, away from him. “Don’t! I’ll call! I’ll call Rocky.”
“White women and their emotions,” he said in a snarl. “Lo odio.”
Wednesday Morning
Manny
Rocky was waiting for them the next morning at Bourbon Coffee off L Street when they arrived at 7:30 a.m. A CLOSED sign hung on the door, though the coffee shop had opened two hours earlier. A large man in a black coat stood near the entrance, dissuading patrons from entering by scowling and shaking his head. It was effective.
Rocky sat in the back. He wore a red scarf and dark herringbone overcoat, which Manny admired. Instead of his traditional good-natured smile, Rocky’s face was turned down. They joined his table.
A barista with piercings in her nose, ears, eyebrows, and lips set down three mugs and a steaming carafe, and quickly she left. The coffee shop was empty other than them.
Rocky placed a device on the table and pressed it. The tiny speaker emitted a strange warble, so high pitched they barely heard it. Not painful or annoying. It obliterated potential listening devices.
“Obviously this conversation isn’t happening,” he said.
“Obviously,” Manny replied.
“I looked into it. And you’re about to get vague details into my private world. If anyone finds out I’m telling you this, we will all be killed.”
Beck nodded. She was breathing deeply and her neck had red splotches.
“The container you identified is scheduled to be delivered to the Dundalk Terminal at the Port of Baltimore tonight. It’s aboard Maryland Victory, a tramp-tanker I bought two years ago from the Mediterranean Shipping Company, as they transitioned to more Pegasus-class ships.”
“What’s in that container?” asked Manny.
“Perishable items—bananas, coffee, that kind of thing. Upon arrival it will quickly be loaded onto a train and sent to Colorado. That container is climate-controlled with dry ice packs. The container itself does not belong to me. Nor does the cargo within. It was loaded in Venezuela by men employed by the shipping terminal. The container does not belong to them, nor does the cargo within. The container was manufactured in a steelyard four years ago, and then altered in a second steelyard by men in the employ of Los Urabeños. The alteration gives the container a false rear wall, allowing cocaine to be packed within. Los Urabeños produced the cocaine, pre-sold it to the Kings, who then pre-sold it to smaller wholesalers on the East Coast. Right now the cocaine is sitting in the hidden compartment, atop the Atlantic Ocean, en route to the Port of Baltimore.”
“How much cocaine?”
“One h
undred million’s worth.”
“One hundred million,” breathed Beck.
“After it’s cut and sold, it’ll be worth over three hundred million. Then cut and sold again, for a grand total street value of half a billion. Cocaine is the most profitable product on earth.”
Manny poured himself a mug of coffee. Drank it black. He said, “No way Darren intends to steal a hundred million of coke.”
“I agree. That much requires a large network to process. And if Los Urabeños found him with it, they’d kill him slowly over the course of a month. I think a much more realistic scenario is, the mysterious Carlos is with MS-13 and Darren sold us out.”
“You think Darren has arranged for MS-13, a rival gang, to intercept the cocaine before it reaches the Kings.” Beck was processing out loud.
Rocky nodded. “Quite the stroke of revenge. It will be a staggering loss for us and a coup for them. Plus I’m sure Darren will get a cut of the profits.”
“Hombre’s going out with a bang,” Manny mumbled.
“Indeed.”
“So what will you do? Send extra security to the boat tonight?” she said.
“Unfortunately Carlos is correct. Darren’s plan was too simple and dangerous, otherwise we could easily foil the heist. His first email shows a shocking lack of insight,” said Rocky.
“About the ICTF contact,” Manny said.
“Yes. Darren is apparently unaware the container would be guarded by cargo security, port facility security, staff security, and maritime domain security. The only way the Kings make it work is, we have dozens of security officials in our pocket.”
“Including you,” said Manny.
Rocky nodded.
Beck said, “What did Carlos mean about a pilot?”
“I have a guess. It’s a simple and low risk solution for Carlos, and even if it goes wrong it would still be very costly for us. As Maryland Victory nears the coast, it will slow to accept a harbor pilot—an experienced and expensive captain accustomed to navigating the Chesapeake Bay. All larger vessels are required to do this. I believe Carlos intends for the cocaine to be thrown overboard when the ship slows to pick up its harbor pilot. Cocaine bricks float.”
