Outside the Wire
Page 13
#
“I said, tell me what’s going on, or I am gonna beat your ass," Morales said, his voice rising even though he was trying hard to keep it cool pointing his finger at this stone-faced soldier.
Hard to do with the post-adrenalin shakes, the splitting headache and this new crop of Gestapo bastards he found on the main floor after they stomped the nest.
The hard young soldier didn't rise to the bait. Right hand on the pistol grip of his MP-5, the other hand was held palm forward and even with Morales’ chest.
“Major Harden will be with you shortly, now please just have a seat and be patient, Sir.”
There were five or six of them, dressed like Roger’s team, keeping Morales and his agents sequestered in the front room of the row house.
Others, dressed in tan, one-piece outfits, had gone down into the basement.
“Frank, I said for you to cooperate.” It was Daniels’ voice.
Morales hadn't seen him enter. But now that he saw the man, the pissed-off agent readied a barrage.
“These Army types have the area secured and they’ll be done soon,” Daniels said. He nodded a smile to the soldier who didn't respond.
“I come up from a shoot-out with those little monsters in the basement and these guys up here, say they have the scene.” Morales gestured over his shoulder to the other agents all cooling their heels.
“It’s like we’re prisoners at our own bust.”
Through the tattered drapes covering the front window, Morales could see shiny black Suburbans blocking off the road. A few residents were milling around outside of the cordoned-off area.
“They say they just need the scene for a few more minutes and then they'll turn it back over,” Daniels said. He was standing just inside the threshold of the room now.
Crowding past the soldier that held Morales in check, another one just behind Daniels.
“To hell with that. Where'd they take the drugees?”
Daniels tried that patting motion again and started another set of excuses, but was cut off by the squeaking of three gurneys being wheeled down the central hall past them. Thick, grey-green neoprene fabric covered the man-sized bundles. Harden was coming up behind the last gurney.
Morales, red in the face, wanting to draw his pistol, but jabbing his finger instead said, “And you, you son of a bitch, where you draggin' my men to in those body bags-”
Harden stopping, cut him off saying, “Human remains pouches.”
“What?”
“You stuff garbage in a bag; you place a fallen comrade in an HRP.”
That stopped Morales. He blinked a second trying to work his indignation back up.
“Listen-we have a protocol to follow when we take down a nest. We'll process the bodies for forensic evidence off-site and get them to the Morgue, no later than seventeen hundred. You have my word.
Morales, looked from Daniels, who wasn't helping, back to Harden.
“And the Haitians?”
“They'll be interrogated off-site and delivered to you at the Federal building. Also, no later than seventeen hundred.”
Morales let out a heavy sigh, not sure where to go with this. He had jurisdiction, but thought the only way he could enforce it with these guys was by drawing down.
“That was a close one today. Thanks for saving my ass.” This with a sincerity that Morales did not expect. Harden reached out his hand.
Morales took it grudgingly and said, “You gonna tell me what those things were?”
Harden shook his head. “I wish I could.”
“Classified?”
“Not that. I really don't know. We've had the BEKs looked at by forensics guys and University eggheads. No one can tell me what they are exactly.”
Morales shook his head in disbelief.
“Seriously. I've heard lost Amazonian primate species, old Nazi genetic experiments and Alien hybrids. We stumbled on these little monsters in counter-narcotics operations in Columbia back in ninety-six. Been finding them a little further north every year since.”
“So now what?”
“Well, I find the next nest and stomp it. Then clean up the mess and move on.”
Morales nodded again.
“You know, all the people I've worked with, no one ever broke a hold like that.”
Morales guessed the memory of his dead son had a stronger hold on him.
Harden passed over a business card and said, “Might be able to find a place for you on the team, if you’re interested.”
Without looking, he took it from Harden and tucked it in one of the straps holding the soldier’s body armor tight. With the cheap white card standing out against the pixilated grays and greens, Morales snapped, “I’m interested in you calling off your dogs and giving me back my crime scene.”
Harden nodded with a tight expression. “Well, watch yourself. These little monsters can hold a grudge, and your performance today was certainly grudge-worthy.”
Morales didn't respond and Harden gave the agent another apprising glance. He passed orders to his men and they stood together not talking.
The soldiers took another ten minutes to clear the scene. On his way out, Harden pulled the card from where Morales tucked it and left it on a grimy little table beside the front door.
“In case you change your mind,” Harden said.
Morales didn't respond, just giving the man a get-out-of-here jerk with his head. When they were gone, the DEA agents went back to work, securing their scene with low comments and plenty of headshaking, none of these guys had been in basement.
The Federal investigation teams, now allowed access, came in and started their own forensic investigation.
Morales waved his boss's excuses away and went to the front door. Standing there, he slipped the card off the table and read the name and email address; all that was printed on it.
Something caught at the periphery of his vision and he looked up from the card and out the open front door.
There, in the milling crowd of rubber-neckers across the street, a kid dressed street. The look of hate in the coal black eyes was unmistakable, but the little monster was gone before Morales could get to it.
Standing on the buckled concrete sidewalk with all the lookie-lou's, he looked down at the card again.
“Yeah, Harden, maybe I will,” he said and then went back to work.
The Sacrifices of Automated Tabulation