January 1985
CHAPTER 13
THE FEDS OBTAINED A VAN THE NIGHT DEACON SET Thomas up. True to their word, they cuffed and shackled him for most of the trip. He spent two days bouncing around the back of the vehicle, thanks to Eastman’s shitty driving, without a clue as to where they were taking him.
The second morning, he woke up to palm trees outside the small back windows and Kodak banging on the van’s metal partition.
“Wake up, kid, time to unload.”
Eastman swung open the back doors. Deacon stumbled out, lowering his eyes to avoid the sudden brightness.
“I need to shower, eat something,” he mumbled to Eastman.
“Yeah, yeah,” answered Kodak, coming around the van. They brought him to a bleak motel room, Bates Motel style, where roaches and other creepers crawled freely. He faceplanted on top of one of the beds and didn’t move for hours.
When he finally woke up, Deacon ate, showered, and slept again while the Feds kept watch. They informed him they were waiting for another agent to show up, and if he did anything stupid, they’d shoot him.
The next day, sitting in a diner outside of Miami, Deacon asked, “Why didn’t you just grab me in Darien?”
“Didn’t need to show people you were still ticking,” said Kodak, gnawing on his bacon like a piece of rawhide. “We had a feeling where you’d end up. Plus, we wanted you to get us close to that kid, Thomas. See if you had the guts to go through with it.”
Deacon pushed the food around on his plate. “He’s smalltime,” he said with a wince, rubbing the side of his face.
“Maybe, but he bought from someone far bigger. Our boys up there will squeeze him and get some names.”
Deacon wondered if his old acquaintance, Jack—the seventeen-year-old park kid who’d taken him under his wing when Deacon was just eight—was still alive. Jack had taught him everything he knew about dealing, exposing him to people no young boy should ever be around in the process. Deacon had grown up quickly in those four years, and he’d been grateful for Jack’s protection and guidance at the time, believing they were friends. Now he understood that Jack had groomed and used him from the start.
Eastman made a clucking noise with the side of his tongue and passed a manila envelope across the table. It took a moment for Deacon to realize it was meant for him. The insignia on the upper left-hand corner resembled a yachting club crest, with red, white, and blue flags as well as black and gold ones, and three tiny ducks on either side of the coat of arms.
“Go ahead, kid . . . oh . . . and happy birthday,” Kodak chortled, splattering his chin with bits of egg. He motioned to the waitress for the check while wiping his mouth and missing most of it.
“What’s this?” Deacon unwound the string-and-button closure. Inside was the birth certificate of a guy born two years before him and some new IDs with his face and a name he’d never seen before on them. Shit.
“Who’s Xavier Coyne?” Deacon scowled, locking his eyebrows together. “What a stupid name.”
“A teenage kingpin who started to make a name for himself,” Kodak said. “He’s known for his insider connections to the Colombian cartels. He’s provided some preliminary information, a few names here and there; we need to sell you as him. You’re gonna be our informant.”
“You’re talking about him like he’s still alive.”
“He’s currently being hidden in our witness protection program for reasons you don’t need to know about. The FBI is resurrecting him as your cover so we can move things along with the Miami cartel.”
“How’s your high school Spanish, kid?” Eastman snickered.
“Wait, what?” Deacon could feel the heat rising up his neck. His appetite for breakfast stalled. “You want me to pretend to be him?”
“You already are,” Kodak said. He passed Deacon several photos from inside his suit jacket.
“This is me in Connecticut. I recognize the street. It’s blurry, but—”
“Connecticut, Colombia, it’s all the same. Drugs, thugs, same everywhere. They don’t discriminate.”
Eastman glanced at the photos and snorted. “Yeah, yeah . . . could be anywhere.”
“Why me? Why don’t you just use him for the mission, have him be your informant?”
“He comes with a few complications,” Kodak said, biting his bottom teeth into his upper lip and somehow focusing his right eye on Eastman while keeping his left one trained on Deacon.
One ugly trigger fish, Deacon thought again.
“There’s some loose baggage we couldn’t nail down. We needed to infiltrate Miami with a fresh set of eyes . . . a young, street-smart dealer who fits the part.”
“This is never going to work.” Deacon pushed the folder away. “As soon as I open my mouth, anyone from Colombia will know I’m not a native.”
“The real Xavier Coyne is American, left Colombia before he could walk. You’ll do fine. A local undercover FBI agent will be in constant contact with you, show you the deal in no time. And you, Xavier Coyne . . . you’ll run the streets of Miami like you own them.”
“Why the hell does it have to be in Miami?”
“Read the news much?” Kodak glared. He took a toothpick from the table dispenser and twirled it between his teeth. “I didn’t think so. The U.S. government and the cartels are in the middle of a drug war down here.”
“Dealers already know me in New York City and Connecticut. If they have connections in Miami or if my photo shows up, my cover is blown. Please. I’ll do anything else but this.”
Kodak slid the check to Eastman. “It’s done,” he said and stood, which was Deacon’s signal to follow.
Eastman paid the bill and they escorted Deacon out of the diner, Kodak’s meat hooks casually choking his upper arm. Deacon desperately searched the patrons’ faces as they exited, hoping someone would realize he was being kidnapped, right there out in the open—and by the federal government, no less.
No one took any notice.
Eastman walked around the newly rented sedan and dropped down into the driver’s seat. Kodak launched the toothpick from his mouth and onto a pile of broken glass on the sidewalk. He opened the passenger-side door and lowered himself into the seat, making the car dip on its chassis.
Deacon’s pulse raced. “Wait, what’s happening? Am I being left here?”
“If you think about running, we’ll find you and charge your ass so fast, along with your girlfriend’s tight you-know-what. You go missing, she goes missing. Don’t test us.” Kodak slammed the door.
Eastman revved the engine. He lowered his partner’s window, leaned over, and yelled to Deacon, “Or get yourself killed like . . . what was that moron’s name?”
“Wait, you’ve done this before?” Deacon slapped the roof with his good arm. Kodak didn’t flinch. “What is happening to me now . . . where are you going? Tell me what happened to the last guy!” Thoughts of lifting the car and toppling it over on its side entered his mind. If only he were the Hulk. This can’t be happening.
He knew the stories of Feds arresting dealers and then providing them with a more lenient sentence if they agreed to assist them in various drug stings. They dressed these young informants to blend in and allowed them to commit pre-authorized crimes to help sell their cover. Many of them didn’t survive, though—partly due to their lack of training, partly due to the DEA’s inadequate efforts to protect them.
“After our last couple of guys fell”—Kodak cleared his throat—“we decided that we needed a fresh face down here. You’ll see, they’ll like that you’re new, not known yet. It’ll help you fly under the radar for a while.”
“Who, the cops or the buyers? Why would they trust someone they’ve never seen or done business with before? I sure as hell wouldn’t.”
“Miami likes them pretty.”
Deacon shook his head. “That’s not me. I’m not your guy.”
“It’s done.”
“Wait, what happened to the last mole you use
d?”
Kodak shrugged like he’d just been asked about the weather. “Cartel got him. Cut up his body ’bout the time he was pushing through a half million pounds of weed and a shitload of rocks.”
“The moron was mutilated,” Eastman added, “body diced up with a chain saw. Then they lit him up like a marshmallow.”
Deacon’s mouth went dry. His head felt feverish; the street threatened to swallow him like quicksand. This is never going to work.
“Sounds like it went real well,” he said tersely.
“Hey,” Kodak said with a sneer, “if you’re backing out now, we’ll gladly put you away for what we found in your car back home . . . pretty boy.”
“You know that was bogus!” Deacon growled.
Kodak’s jowls flushed a lobster red. Through tapered teeth, he hissed, “If you want a lesser rap, you’ll buy from whoever we tell you to, and you’ll wear a wire while you do it. You’ll gain their trust so we can bring these assholes down!”
Eastman smirked. “This should be easy for you, pretty boy. Get close to these guys and in with their girlfriends, find out when the shipments are arriving. Simple.”
“One more thing,” said Kodak, his voice slippery like an eel. Deacon ignored the smile crawling around Eastman’s face. “Your new boss just arrived.”
Eastman stomped on the gas and sped out of the parking lot.
A white Ferrari with dark windows rolled up next to Deacon. Its passenger-side window descended, revealing its driver—a young woman in a snug pink tank dress, wide, arching eyebrows, and pretty, twinkling blue eyes. She arched her body across the seat and smiled broadly, flattening her top lip so that it nearly touched the tip of her teardrop nose. The fresh-faced California blonde reminded him of the girls in those Hawaiian Tropic ads—the ones who ran through the surf and never got their suits wet.
“Hello, cowboy. Agent Claudia Safire. Get in . . . Xavier.”
CHAPTER 14
darien, Connecticut
HANNAH’S STOMACH TWISTED LIKE SHE’D SWALLOWED A knife as she waited for Peter to arrive, unable to shake the guilt. Can’t cheat on a corpse, she told the girl in her bedroom mirror. The girl didn’t look convinced.
They hadn’t seen each other since the shooting. For two weeks she’d let herself brood around the house, her days and nights running together as she hid from everyone. But after Taylor, the impossibly beautiful and airheaded boyfriend magnet—not to mention a member of Gillian’s coven—had dropped by her house six months pregnant and unabashedly admitted that she’d led Toby to believe her baby was his, Hannah knew she’d had enough. She’d drummed up the courage to call Peter—and she was glad she had. His words had comforted her; he’d helped loosen her grip on the fantasy that she could have done more that night to help Deacon.
Peter, after all, knew what had happened; he’d been there to see it unfold. With him she never needed to explain.
She heard his car pull up outside and answered the door before he rang the bell; she didn’t want her father to come downstairs.
He grinned when he saw her. “Hey.”
“Hi,” she said, a little nervous. “What movie did you bring?”
“Two, just in case,” he said, slipping off his jacket. He wore a cornflower blue sweater that made his blue-hazel eyes pop. Hannah carried his jacket into the living room.
“Parents home?”
“My father. You’ll hear his TV pretty soon.”
Peter glanced around the room. “So how’s your mom . . . and sister?”
“Recovering, I guess. I’m not sure what’s going to happen . . . They’re still meeting with shrinks, trying to figure things out.”
She watched his eyes grow large as they perused the décor in the room, from the pumpkin and gold floral curtains to the ugly corduroy couches.
Does it look like the home of an addict? Do I look poor to you now? I wish you never came . . .
She pulled on the ends of her hair. Maybe this was a bad idea.
“And you?” His ocean eyes smiled into hers as if he knew something she didn’t.
“W-what?”
“How are you holding up?”
“I-I don’t know . . .” Tears sprang up, smacking her cool exterior to the ground without warning. Clearly she wasn’t ready for company, even though she wanted to be. Hannah turned and hid her face. “Maybe you—”
“They’re sort of comedies.”
“W-what?”
“Risky Business or Spring Break?” He held them out to show her.
Hannah gently pressed her middle fingers under her eyes, wiping away the eyeliner that was surely spreading underneath them. She sniffled and smiled weakly.
“I like Tom Cruise.”
“Done.” He winked and headed toward the VCR on top of the TV console.
Hannah flopped on the couch by the window. She lifted an afghan blanket over her legs and curled them underneath it. Peter hesitated, watching her, then rubbed his hands down his thighs and lowered himself next to her.
She began twirling her hair around her finger. “I never asked you how you were doing since that night. You knew Deacon longer than I did. Is it weird that he’s gone?”
“I only knew him in elementary school, before he and his mom moved away. We weren’t exactly friends later. He became pretty full of himself.”
“But you had warned me, saying he ‘wasn’t a good guy.’”
“Yeah, he was a drug dealer. Can’t get lower than that,” he said like it was a dumb question.
“So you look down on me for dating him?”
Peter shifted in his seat. “I didn’t think he was good for you; I didn’t want to see you mixed up in all of that and hanging around those types of people . . . what if you began using? I . . . I don’t know. I just felt like I couldn’t watch you go with a guy like that.”
He opened his hand next to her, resting it between them. Their fingers nearly touched, but she didn’t take it. She pulled her body up straighter, releasing the strands of hair she’d been playing with.
“But why . . .” she persisted.
A shy grin wrapped around Peter’s face. He turned back to the movie, bumping his shoulder into hers. She didn’t move away. It felt weird. It felt new.
“I love this part,” she said, watching Cruise slide across the floor in his underwear to the first bars of “Old Time Rock and Roll.”
“Me too.” Peter sighed and folded his arms.
“Want a Coke or anything?”
“No, I’m good. Real good.”
CHAPTER 15
South beach, Miami
“EVER BEEN TO MIAMI?” CLAUDIA ASKED WITH A LINGERING sidelong glance. Deacon noticed that she tilted her chin up when she spoke.
He hesitated as they passed under the WELCOME TO MIAMI sign on the MacArthur Causeway. “Nope.”
“You’re in luck. It’s currently going through a revival.”
“Oh,” he said coolly, not masking his disinterest.
“Here’s a little history lesson that could come in handy. What you see on Miami Vice is not reality . . . though maybe one day it will be.”
“I’ve never seen it.”
“Kind of ironic, since you’re going to be working under-cover with the Miami police.”
“It wasn’t by choice.”
“You do know why you’re here, don’t you?” Her voice went up a few octaves.
He shrugged and looked off to the side of the road. “To not get killed.”
“To help us take down these drug cartels and monstrous criminals who have turned this place into a ghost town . . . one full of fear.”
She waited a beat for his response. When he said nothing, she jerked the steering wheel, cutting across three lanes of traffic, and took the next exit at lighting speed, pinning Deacon’s shoulder against his door. He was thankful her car hugged the turn—unlike his stomach. As soon as he could, he reached over and pulled his seatbelt across his body, wondering what other kinds of reckless things Agent
Safire liked to do. Seriously, she’s the one in charge?
“Ah, this is it. Your new home,” she said with another chin tilt, practically singing, as she merged into the slow-moving traffic on 5th Street.
“It’s nothing but old people,” Deacon said, propping his elbow on his door. He rested his head against his fist as Claudia’s Ferrari idled near the corner of Collins Avenue, waiting for an elderly woman and two men to cross. The man in the middle, dressed in a plaid leisure suit and cap, appeared to be steadying the other two—which wasn’t reassuring, since he wobbled nearly as much. They all wore thick rubber-soled shoes and some sort of jacket, even though the temperature felt like a Connecticut summer.
Claudia nodded. “Yes, it wasn’t always like this. It used to be vibrant, an exciting area with a booming nightlife.
“Uh-huh . . . booming.”
“The drugs are making the streets deserted. The city just had a major bust a couple of weeks ago.”
“My job is done then,” Deacon scoffed, wiping his hands together like he was washing them.
She slammed her hands against the steering wheel. “That’s not even the tip of it, kid!”
“You don’t get to call me ‘kid,’” he said, raising his voice. “Geez, we’re about the same age.”
Her top teeth dropped onto her boney jaw like a guillotine; her broad lips resembled the end of a lemon. She smacked the car lighter with her palm, drew a cigarette from the open pack in the center console, and started raising and lowering it between her lips like a tollgate. She tossed her wavy golden tresses behind her shoulders, then brought the lighter’s glowing ring to the tip of her Virginia Slims and inhaled.
Through puffs of smoke, pointing with her cigarette hand, Claudia said, “Innocent people are dying every day because of these cartels. These guys don’t play . . . and will kill anyone who gets in their way.”
She took another long drag. This time the smoke streaming from her nose spread over the dash like rolling fog. She flexed her long, skinny fingers on top of the steering wheel, sending all ten hot-pink nails pointing skyward. Then she curled her left hand around the wheel like a cat’s tail and swung the car up Collins Ave.
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