Rolling Thunder

by Matt Lincoln

  He smiled at the windshield. “Did she?”

  I dropped the matter without further comment. “Found a bug in her room.”

  “Damn. This thing’s turning into a hell of a mess.”

  “Yeah.” I shifted and settled back in the seat. “Gonna be a long night, too.”

  “My favorite kind,” he quipped.

  For a while, we sat without speaking, and both of us scanned the surroundings for anything suspicious or unusual. Eventually, Holm finished his burnt and greasy coffee, crumpled the cup, and tossed it into the back seat. “Should’ve grabbed some terrible hot dogs to go with that.”

  I snorted. “The coffee’s doing enough damage.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m hungry.” He patted his pockets for a few minutes, then gave up and flumped back against the seat. “Ethan, what are we gonna do about Cobra Jon?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered honestly.

  “Do you know how many LEOs he’s killed?” LEOs meant law enforcement officers.

  “No,” I admitted.

  “Eight. And that’s just him, personally. The Black Mambas have killed at least three more.” Holm clenched his jaw. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t, but I can see why the other agencies never go after him. He’s dangerous because he doesn’t give a shit about anything.”

  That wasn’t exactly true.

  “There are some things he cares about,” I said as a rough theory started to form in my mind. “One of them is money. He probably has a few people that matter to him, but unless one of them is Benta, we’ve got nothing to use there. So we go with money.”

  “Are you suggesting we rob the man?” Holm asked incredulously.

  “No. I’m suggesting someone already did, in a manner of speaking.” The more I thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. “That someone would be Chad Sweeting.”

  Holm frowned. “Our beach victim?”

  “Think about it,” I said. “Most likely scenario here is that Benta pulled the trigger on Cobra Jon’s orders. He wouldn’t tolerate an unsanctioned hit on one of his guys, and Benta wouldn’t cross him. So, why would he order his own man killed?”

  “Because Sweeting screwed up royally,” Holm said as he considered that. “None of them would actually rob the boss, so he must’ve cost Cobra Jon money, somehow.”

  I nodded along as he talked. “Maybe Sweeting mucked up a deal or a contract. Or he… lost something. A delivery, a shipment.”

  “Yeah. That’s a damned good theory,” Holm said with rising excitement. “So, the kid loses something big, something he can’t make up for. Weapons or drugs, probably. He flees the country, hides out in a cave. And then Benta—”

  “Is here.” I cut him off sharply as I made out a figure with unruly dreadlocks slipping behind the palm trees that lined the sidewalk on our side of the street, headed toward us. “Nine o’clock.”

  Holm’s gaze tracked the line. When he spotted the night-dark, creeping silhouette, his hand moved to his holster and flipped the snap. “Go now?”

  “Wait. Let him get a little closer.”

  We both drew our weapons with steady, careful movements and waited with hands on the door handles. The target slithered closer. When Benta started to ease out from behind a palm tree, his stare riveted to the hotel across the street, I gave a barely perceptible nod.

  Holm and I burst from the car at the same time, weapons raised. “Federal agents!” I called out. “Stay right there, Benta.”

  He didn’t stay. He whirled and ran.

  Chapter 15

  “Damn it, they always run,” Holm gritted through his teeth as we took off after the suspect.

  Benta didn’t have much of a head start, but he was milking it for everything he could. Ten yards down the sidewalk, he cut a long diagonal across the empty street and half-turned with something in his hand. A gun, probably the S&W nine-mil he’d killed Sweeting with.

  He fired twice. Missed both of us, but in response to the gunfire, red and blue lights flashed to life on the squad car that had been tucked unobtrusively along the side of the Palm Bay. The siren blipped and the engine roared to life.

  Benta did a double-take and spun on a heel before stumbling a few steps. I took a shot at him, and he snarled and clutched his arm briefly before he sprinted ahead.

  “Grazed him!” Holm announced as he ran along beside me. “We splitting off yet?”

  “Soon.” I kept one eye on the sprinting figure, the other on the squad car that roared into the street and turned in the direction Benta had gone with a screech of tires. “Do not let Metro kill him. We need him alive.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good. We split right there,” I said with a quick nod at the upcoming cross street. “You stay straight, I’ll cut left.”

  “How many blocks you want?”

  “Three.”

  Holm acknowledged with a flashed thumbs-up. “Here comes your exit.”

  “See you on the corner,” I said as I swung left down the side road and put on a burst of speed.

  We’d used this tactic plenty of times with running suspects. One of us swerves off-route to a hastily planned destination point, the other uses carefully placed gunfire to drive the runner straight toward it.

  Only this time, we had the added distraction of local cops in a squad car who weren’t in on the plan. I could hear the siren wailing and the engine rumbling as I hit the next back street parallel to the main road and pounded pavement up it.

  Then a gunshot split the air. Too early to be Holm moving Benta down the third block. If that son of a bitch shot my partner—

  My phone buzzed. Somehow I managed to fumble it out and press it to my ear, but I didn’t even get the chance to spit a word into it before Holm’s voice gasped, “Make it one!”

  Benta had already cut left. He’d emerge from the side street ahead of me any second.

  I ran harder, pushing off with every leaping step, head down and elbows tucked to minimize drag. Sure enough, the target popped out at the corner of the next street up, about fifteen yards from my position.

  Then he made a mistake. He turned toward me, probably intending to double back and shake the squad car before he worried about the guys on foot.

  He’d hit full stride before he noticed me.

  Benta skidded to a stop and tried to scramble around, but he was too late, and he knew it. He raised his gun just as I squeezed a shot off and nicked his shin. Snarling a curse, he dove sideways and fired.

  I zigged around the shot, pivoted on a heel, and launched myself at him while he was trying to regain his feet.

  The impact knocked him to the ground. His arm shot up and whacked the butt of the gun against my shoulder. Son of a bitch, that was gonna leave a mark. At least he had the sense not to try repositioning the weapon to fire. That would’ve cost him seconds he didn’t have.

  He had even less time than he figured because I was faster. I pressed a forearm against his throat, wrenched the gun from his fingers, and tossed it aside.

  Benta hissed and bucked hard, throwing me halfway off. He nearly managed to scramble out from under me when I grabbed a handful of dreadlocks and jerked his head back before shoving the muzzle of my gun under his chin.

  “Stop moving,” I growled as I planted a knee on his chest.

  He stilled and glared at me, his hands opening in reluctant surrender as he moved his arms up slowly.

  “Ethan!” Holm’s voice called from somewhere to my left, under the cry of the siren that was growing increasingly louder. I caught flashing lights in my peripherals as the squad car approached from the right and slowed.

  “I’ve got him. Grab his weapon.” I gestured with my head in the direction I’d thrown the gun, my eyes not leaving Benta’s. His were filled with rage.

  “You’re under arrest,” I told him as I grabbed my cuffs with my free hand. “Want to guess why?”

  He said nothing.

  It didn’t take long to get him cuffed and hauled to his feet, and
I maintained a grip on the cuffs in case he decided to try bolting. By that time Holm had collected and bagged Benta’s gun, the officers were climbing out of the car, hands on their weapons. They were young and fresh-faced, about the same age, height, and build. With the hats covering their hair, the only real visible difference was that one’s face was rounder than the other’s.

  “Thanks for the assist,” I told them as they approached warily. “We can take it from here.”

  The officer who’d been driving the car, the one with the slightly pointier face, frowned a little. “Who’s this guy?”

  “Our suspect,” I said.

  Benta lunged at him with a low growl, and he danced back, startled. The handcuffed man gave a mocking laugh that prompted the round-faced cop to scowl and draw his gun.

  “Put it away, kid,” Holm drawled as he came up next to me. “The suspect is what we call neutralized. You shoot him now, and you’re gonna find yourself on the other side of these cuffs.”

  “He thinks this is funny,” the round-faced cop said hotly.

  “Yeah. They all think it’s funny until those prison doors slam shut.” I jerked on the cuffs a little. “Isn’t that right, Sniper?”

  “But—”

  “Holster your weapon, rookie,” I said firmly.

  The round-faced cop put his gun back reluctantly and looked at his partner.

  “Are we supposed to take him in?” he asked.

  “No, you’re not,” I said before the pointy-faced one could answer. “You’re supposed to get in your car, drive back to the hotel, and help protect the witness.”

  The driver huffed. “But you’ve got the guy.”

  “Too bad. You’re on protection detail,” Holm said, clearly irritated. “Get back there and protect.”

  They looked at me, and I shrugged. “You heard the man.”

  Amid a flurry of grumbling, the officers plodded back toward the squad car. They were just about to open the doors when Benta spoke for the first time since I’d spotted him on the main street.

  “Bye-bye, baby cops,” he said in a soft and chilling tone.

  The officers popped the doors open and practically flung themselves into the car, executing a clumsy three-point turn before they drove off in the opposite direction.

  I watched them leave and sighed in Holm’s general direction. “Maybe I should’ve told Detective Peterson exactly who I figured was going to show up when I mentioned the stakeout to him.”

  “You didn’t tell him?”

  “Nah. They would’ve had to take him in, and I want him all to myself.”

  Holm grinned. “I’ll go get the car.”

  As my partner walked away, I frog-marched Benta out of the street toward the sidewalk, turned him around, and forced him into a seated position on the curb. I kept one hand on his shoulder while I held my gun with the other.

  “So, do you want to talk now, or in an interrogation room?”

  He failed to reply.

  “Interrogation room it is, then.”

  His head moved slightly as if he meant to look up at me, but then he changed his mind and kept his gaze straight ahead.

  After a moment of silence, I decided to try again. “I’d love to know what you’re thinking right now, Benta.”

  “I’m thinking you’re a dead man,” he said without looking at me, in that same chilling tone. “Special Agent Marston.”

  Okay. I had to admit, hearing my name come out of his mouth was unsettling. There was no way he should’ve known that. Still, I couldn’t let him know that he’d gotten to me.

  “That’s funny because I was thinking the same thing about you,” I said. “Your boss isn’t going to be happy when he finds out you got pinched before you could finish the job.”

  Benta laughed. It was just as chilling as his speech.

  “Suit yourself,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders. “By the way, you can forget those dreams of lawyers dancing in your head, right along with the extradition to the Bahamas you think you’re getting. I’m charging you with a crime committed on American soil, and my agency has international jurisdiction.”

  He stiffened briefly beneath my grip. At least I’d gotten to him, too.

  Holm pulled up with the car, and I tugged and shoved the resistant Benta into the back seat. Then I slammed the door shut before I got into the passenger side. “Let’s go.”

  Holm drove forward, hung a right at the next intersection, and emerged on the main street to point the car in the direction of the agency building.

  “You all right?” he said eventually.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Fine,” he said. “For a sniper, this asshole’s a lousy shot.”

  If Agay Benta had an opinion about Holm’s observation, he kept it to himself.

  I yawned and stretched briefly. “Hell of a Saturday, wasn’t it?”

  “Tell me about it,” Holm grumbled. “What time is it, anyway?”

  I smirked. “A little after two, according to Mister Dashboard Clock. Which is practically in front of your face if you could be bothered to look.”

  “Hey, I’m concentrating on driving.” He blew out a breath and glanced in the rearview mirror. “Did the statue back there tell you anything?”

  “Nada,” I said, though he had told me something inadvertently. He knew my name, which meant I had to figure out how and probably why. “He did accept my offer to take a tour of the interrogation room, though.”

  “Great. I love guided tours.” He smiled, but the expression was weak, and he looked just as exhausted as I felt. “So, what’s the tour schedule look like?”

  “I’m thinking he can cool his heels in a holding cell tonight and think about how much fun we’ll have in the morning.”

  A genuine grin flashed on Holm’s face. “Hallelujah,” he said, and then his features fell. “Wait. Does that mean we’re going back to the hotel?”

  “Nope. You’re going home.”

  “Thank God,” he breathed. “And where are you going?”

  “Home. Probably.”

  A low, liquid chuckle drifted up from the back seat.

  Holm glanced at me with alarm. “Uh, maybe you shouldn’t go home.”

  “Bullshit. I’ll go wherever the hell I want to,” I said, refusing to play Benta’s game. He might be good at terrorizing civilian women and underling gang members, but he wasn’t getting under my skin. I’d crack the son of a bitch in the morning and get on with taking down the rest of the Black Mambas, including Cobra Jon.

  These assholes had picked the wrong beach to murder people on.

  Chapter 16

  Tessa woke at seven in the morning on Sunday, surprised she’d been able to get to sleep at all. After everything that had happened yesterday, a day that felt like it had gone on for a week, she’d been sure she would toss and turn all night, jump at every little sound, and generally worry herself into a total wreck.

  She hadn’t, though, and she suspected that Special Agent Ethan Marston had something to do with that.

  Not directly, of course. He hadn’t been in the room with her, standing over her bed like a rugged, gorgeous angel, even though she wouldn’t have minded if he had. There was just something in the way he did things that made her feel personally protected. Safe and sound.

  Unfortunately, that feeling didn’t negate what was happening to her. A private security agent had been following her around Miami for who knew how long until she noticed him. Then someone had killed him and tried to kill her. She was damned lucky to be alive.

  For a moment, she considered calling Donald in New York and telling him what happened, but he’d worry too much. He might even pull her off the assignment, and that was the last thing she wanted. Besides, it was Sunday morning, and he was probably still in bed.

  Speaking of her job, she was starting to wonder whether she’d ever be allowed to get back to it, with everything that had happened and was still happening. If she had to, she could probably find another place to shoot,
but that tidal pool had seemed so perfect. The cave couldn’t be a crime scene forever, could it?

  Maybe she’d ask Ethan about it when he got here. He’d said he would stop by this morning.

  She was probably a little more excited about that than she should’ve been.

  Tempting as it was to take a long soak in the whirlpool tub, she decided on a shower instead. She had no idea when Ethan might stop in to check on her, and honestly, she might as well try to get some work done. There was plenty more background research she wanted to put into her piece.

  Not that it’d be easy to focus on intertidal plants and salinity variations when she’d nearly been shot last night. But she was going to try.

  Once she was showered, Tessa slipped into the luxury plush-lined bathrobe the hotel had provided and brought her laptop out to the suite’s living room. Already, the bright Florida sun strained at the edges of the thick vertical blinds pulled across the sliding glass doors that led to the balcony, giving the room plenty of light even through the thin spaces between them. She left them closed, not quite ready for that kind of intensity yet.

  As she settled onto one of the couches, she glanced at the closed door across the room and shivered. There were police officers on the other side of that door, making sure she didn’t get killed. The thought was chilling.

  She opened the laptop, powered it on, and pulled up Google, fully intending to dig into HighWire for background sourcing.

  Instead, she found herself searching for Special Agent Ethan Marston.

  The general details of his career were readily available. Almost immediately, she found an article from a military publication about him joining MBLIS as an agent four years ago. Prior to that, he’d done three tours in the Navy, two of them as a Navy SEAL, and he’d been awarded two Bronze Stars, a Silver Star, and a Navy Distinguished Service Medal.

  She looked up the awards. Both of the stars were combat medals, the Bronze for heroic or meritorious service or achievement, and the Silver for gallantry in action. The Distinguished Service Medal was apparently more important and was awarded for exceptionally meritorious service to the United States.