Blood Lines
Page 8
“So far. I’ve still got my ears.” Victor took another drag on his cigarette.
“You’ve also got a son.” Urlacher opened the file.
11
>> Interview Room
>> Federal Bureau of Investigation Field Office
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 1941 Hours
Before he could stop himself, Victor glanced at the file Urlacher had brought into the room. Bobby Lee’s picture was on top. Bobby Lee looked bruised and cocky.
“You don’t want to go down that road,” Victor said quietly.
“Sure I do,” Urlacher stated. “It’s the same road you took getting to my guy.”
Victor didn’t say anything.
“You build a road,” Urlacher said, “it goes both ways. My guy says you threatened his family. Now I’m telling you that I can hit you right back.”
“I never threatened his family. You saw the photos.”
“I saw the ones you wanted me to see. But my guy also says your friend hightailed it with a magazine just before we showed up. So you show some pictures, do a little sleight of hand, then send them away with your buddy. That might fly in a kiddie show, but this is serious business.”
“The FBI’s got no interest in Bobby Lee.”
“No. But more than that, I can make the interest the Marines have in Bobby Lee go away.”
Victor leaned back in his chair. “If I cooperate? Tell you what you want to know?”
Urlacher nodded and smiled. “See? I told you I didn’t think you were stupid.”
Victor didn’t say anything. His thoughts felt scrambled. He hadn’t seen this curve coming.
“Bobby Lee’s pregnant girlfriend ratted him out,” Urlacher said. “She told the Charlotte PD where to find Bobby Lee. The Charlotte PD called Camp Lejeune and talked to the NCIS agents there. You know who they are?”
Victor nodded. “I know who they are.”
“The word I get is that they want Bobby Lee pretty bad after what he did to that Marine.” Urlacher grinned mirthlessly. “You and I both know soldiers. Probably every bit as old school as one-percenter bikers when it comes to taking a pound of flesh back from someone who’s wronged them.”
Silently Victor agreed. “Do they know where Bobby Lee is?”
“Yeah.” Urlacher closed the file. “But so do I. And I’ve got a team headed there now.”
Victor thought about that. “The boy’s green to trouble. He’s not going to know how to handle himself. If your people confront him, surrendering is gonna be the last thing on his mind.”
“Then I guess that’ll just be bad all the way around.”
A million thoughts rattled through Victor’s head all at once. He felt them surge like a tide of writhing snakes, and none of them were friendly or comforting. He kept seeing Bobby Lee shot up and dead. Both of them were caught like rats in traps.
Only Bobby Lee didn’t know that yet.
Let it go, Victor told himself. They’ll bring Bobby Lee in. They’re the FBI. They’re trained for situations like this.
But Victor also knew his son. Bobby Lee envisioned himself as some Old West gunfighter. He was determined to die with his boots on.
And the idea of going to prison for what he’d done to that Marine would have been impossible for the young man at his age.
The emotion that rushed through Victor surprised him. He wouldn’t have believed how much he didn’t want to see his son get hurt. They hadn’t known each other long, but it had been long enough for Victor to see himself in the young man and know that he had a bid for immortality. Especially with a grandson already on the way.
Victor stubbed his cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray. “Let me talk to Bobby Lee.”
Urlacher didn’t say anything.
A curse ripped through Victor’s lips. “Let me talk to Bobby Lee, get him to give himself up. If you do that, I’ll give you my connection.”
And then, Victor knew, the war would be on. He and Tran went back over thirty years. But he didn’t doubt for a second that Tran would have him killed for rolling over on him.
Slowly Urlacher nodded. “I can do that. But if you’re lying to me, I’ll carve the rock they’ll set over Bobby Lee’s grave and stomp it into place myself.”
>> Spider’s Tattoo Shop
>> Doggett Street
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 2026 Hours
Shel stood across the street from the tattoo shop and gazed at the neon blue spider holding tattooing needles in all its legs. As the animation kicked in, the neon spider’s legs blurred into motion, and a cloud of black webbing spurted up.
“Nifty,” Shel said as he adjusted his sunglasses. The sun was still up and would be for another fifteen or twenty minutes. But shadows had already started to steep themselves between the buildings. Pools of darkness spread across the sidewalks.
Remy looked at him. “People still say nifty?”
“Some do,” Shel said. “The really cool people do.”
“I never heard anybody say nifty.”
“I would say that’s because you don’t hang with cool people, but you’re here with me now.”
“I’ve never heard you say it before.”
“That’s because you haven’t been listening.”
“I listen just fine.” Remy turned his attention back to the tattoo parlor. “How do you want to do this?”
Shel studied the area. The tattoo parlor was flanked by a deli and a Chinese restaurant. Both businesses still had customers. So did the tattoo parlor.
“Straight ahead,” Shel answered. “Go in. Introduce myself to Bobby Lee. Then take him down.”
“Oh yeah, I really like how inconspicuous that’s going to be. Especially after Will called to give us the heads-up about the FBI.”
“The fact that the FBI is involved at all is putting pressure on our timetable.” Shel glanced down the street and searched for any unmarked cars that might have been filled with FBI agents. For the moment, he didn’t see any. “If we had time, we’d go with my other great plan.”
Remy shot him a look. “I’m afraid to ask.”
“We’d build a giant wooden horse and climb inside. Pretend to be a gift to Bobby Lee. On second thought, maybe we could disguise ourselves in a giant wooden Harley.”
“Wow. I can see you’ve been giving this a lot of thought.”
“I stopped thinking about how we’re going to do it after Will called. We’re all out of time.” Shel glanced at the tattoo-artist spider again. “I’m not going back without Bobby Lee.”
“He could have friends.”
“I don’t think his friends would be all that friendly. Bobby Lee doesn’t strike me as the dedicated friend sort.”
“This part of your Father’s Day mad-on?”
Shel shook his head. “Just me doing my job. I’m going to go check out tattoos.”
“Why you?”
“Do you see any black customers in that tattoo shop?”
Remy looked, then shook his head. “That place has probably got a rear exit.”
“Probably.”
“Maybe I should slip around back and set up there. In case Bobby Lee somehow gets wise to your stealth ninja moves.”
“Sure.”
“Give me five minutes.”
Shel nodded and reached down to pat Max on the head. The Labrador sat quietly and contentedly beside him as Remy walked down the block and crossed the street.
Despite the tension that coiled in his stomach—more from the possibility of FBI interference than from the idea of facing Bobby Lee—Shel remained calm and cool. This was business as usual, no matter if it was Father’s Day.
He scratched Max behind the ear, listened to the dog pant in the heat, and felt the sweat trickle down his back under the slim-line Kevlar vest he wore. A sleeveless flannel shirt softened the edges of the vest, and the tails of the shirt left outside his pants covered the matte black Mark 23 Mod 0 SOCOM .45-caliber semiaut
omatic pistol in the pancake holster at the base of his spine. Extra magazines rode in his jeans pockets, but he doubted he’d be able to work a reload inside the shop if things went awry.
Excitement flooded Shel’s veins with adrenaline. He lived for this.
>> 2027 Hours
Bobby Lee Gant lay in the chair with his eyes closed, riding on a pleasant wave of alcohol and pills. He felt the sharp bite of the tattooing gun as it chewed through the flesh over his heart. The raucous buzzing echoed inside his head over the thundering bass of the heavy metal music blasting through the tattoo parlor.
Someone slapped his forehead.
“Hey!” Bobby Lee opened his eyes and tried to push up from the chair. “Don’t you be slapping me, you big piece of—”
“Stop moving!” Spider spoke gruffly around a fat cigar shoved into his wide mouth. He was a big man in his fifties, with a flat, rugged face and beard and hair that roped down to his broad shoulders. He held the tattoo gun off to one side and dabbed at Bobby Lee’s chest with a wipe with the other hand. “You keep moving around like that, this tat’s gonna look like a three-year-old done it. And if you walk out of here with a bad-lookin’ tat and you tell everybody I done it, I’m gonna charge you double.”
Juiced by the drugs and whiskey, Bobby Lee grinned. “Okay, okay.” He started to raise his hands in surrender.
Spider cursed. “Keep your hands down!”
Bobby Lee put his arms at rest beside him. It was hard to be still. With the drugs and the music working, he wanted to be up and dancing. More than that, he wanted to be with Lorna, his girl. He closed his eyes and thought about that.
The tattoo gun started buzzing again. Pain seeped back into his skin.
“You spell Lorna with two o’s, don’t you?” Spider asked.
“What?” Bobby opened his eyes again and tried to peer down at his chest.
Spider barked laughter that echoed even over the heavy metal. He put a big hand on Bobby Lee’s forehead and pushed him back into the chair.
“Man, relax,” Spider guffawed. “I’m just screwing with you.”
Bobby Lee lay back.
“I know it’s spelled with a u,” Spider said.
Irritated, Bobby Lee reached for the pistol tucked into his waistband.
Spider’s demeanor changed in a flash. He dropped a hand to Bobby Lee’s arm and trapped it against his body. “Hold on there, boy.”
“Let go!” Bobby Lee shouted. “I ain’t in here for you to make fun of.” He held on to the pistol, but Spider’s strong hand prevented him from pulling it.
“Chill, bro,” Spider said. “I was just havin’ a little fun.”
“It ain’t fun for me. That’s the name of my woman. I don’t want it spelled wrong.”
“It ain’t gonna be spelled wrong.” Spider held up a forearm. There in ink he’d written Lorna. “Got her name right here. As long as you spelled it right, I spell it right.”
Bobby Lee stared at the man a little longer, then relaxed in the chair.
“We cool?” Spider asked.
Bobby Lee nodded. “Cool.”
“Then you just get mellow, bro, ’cause we’re in the home stretch.”
But before Spider could start in with the ink gun again, Bobby Lee’s cell phone rang. It was just a track phone, a cheap, disposable handset he’d had Lorna purchase for him. He waved Spider off, pulled the phone out of his pocket, and flipped it open.
“Got some bad news, man,” a voice said after Bobby Lee answered. “Lorna told the cops where you are. They’re on their way there now.”
Panic flooded Bobby Lee as he scrambled up from the chair despite Spider’s protests. He wasn’t going to jail. No way.
12
>> Spider’s Tattoo Shop
>> Doggett Street
>> Charlotte, North Carolina
>> 2033 Hours
“Something I can help you with, man?”
Shel looked at the slim young woman behind the counter to the right of the door inside the shop. She was dressed in black jeans and a black Anthrax concert T-shirt. She was pale enough to pass as a vampire. Metal studs gleamed in her eyebrows and at the bottom of her lower lip. Her long blonde hair was the color of old bone.
“I wanted to see about getting a tattoo,” Shel said. He let the Texas drawl slide naturally into his words. In the military he’d learned what he called “TV talk,” that flat Midwestern accent used by news anchors and sports announcers.
The woman looked at him and smiled. “You don’t seem the type.”
Shel smiled back and stepped toward the counter. His gaze took in the closed-circuit monitor hanging from the wall.
“And what type do I seem like to you?” Shel asked.
The woman folded her arms and leaned a hip against the counter. “Mama’s boy. Joe Average. Joe Military.”
Shel knew he couldn’t help looking military. Even when he was in disguise—even better ones than his current effort—he still looked like a Marine poster boy.
“Actually,” the young woman went on, “you look like you could be some superhero’s secret identity.”
Terrific, Shel thought. But he kept his smile in place. “Actually, it’s worse than that.”
She cocked an eyebrow and waited.
“I’m afraid of needles,” Shel said conspiratorially.
The woman looked at him askance. “A big guy like you?”
“I know. Shameful, isn’t it?”
“Well . . .”
Shel nodded and shrugged. “If I hadn’t met this girl, and if she wasn’t into tattoos, I wouldn’t be here tonight.” He paused. “And I have to be honest—unless I see something I really want, I’m not even getting one.”
“A girl, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Pretty?”
“Yeah.” Shel shrugged again. “I guess that makes me sound pretty dumb, huh?”
“As long as you don’t do anything really stupid, you should be okay.”
“What’s really stupid?” Shel asked.
“Getting her name tattooed on you. Then you have to explain to all your other girlfriends why you got that one’s name . . . wherever you put it.”
“Maybe I won’t show it to them.”
The young woman grinned. “Oh, they’ll look for it. I would.”
“I could just date only girls with that name,” Shel suggested.
“Right.” The woman took a book down from a shelf over the counter. “Got some designs here you might like. Small. Distinctive.” She looked at his biceps. “Big as your arms are, I’d check out some tribal tats. That would look cool.”
Shel grinned again. He’d learned a long time ago that women of all ages liked his grin.
Noise erupted from the back. The door opened, and Bobby Lee Gant stepped into the room with a 9 mm pistol tightly gripped in his fist. He was young and thin, at least twenty pounds too light for his five-foot, nine-inch frame. He wore holey jeans, square-toed boots, a Confederate flag bandanna that held back his greasy hair, and a motorcycle jacket without a shirt. Drops of blood glinted in the center of a tattoo of a skull with a rose clenched in its teeth. Lorna was inscribed beneath the skull.
“Hey, Bobby Lee,” a gruff voice said. “Get back in here, bro.”
Judging from the young man’s jerky reactions and his unfocused gaze, Shel figured Bobby Lee was higher than a kite. Shel didn’t move. Beside him, Max set himself, hunkering low and getting prepared to separate and go for the pistol.
Shel signed to Max, and the dog sat with a quiet but forlorn whimper. Max wasn’t used to quietly sitting out while guns were in evidence.
Bobby Lee whipped his pistol toward Shel. “Get your hands up!”
>> 2033 Hours
When Remy saw three unmarked sedans suddenly whip by the end of the alley, he knew something had gone badly wrong. Or was about to. He slid his Beretta out from under his shirt and held it ready as he catfooted through the alley toward the tattoo parlor’s rear exit.
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His cell phone buzzed against his hip. He braced against the wall in the deepening dark of the approaching evening and slid the phone out so he could read the caller ID as it buzzed again.
A loud voice sounded inside the shop. Someone screamed.
Caller ID showed that the call was coming from NCIS headquarters in Camp Lejeune.
Remy pulled the earpiece connector from his shirt pocket, slipped it into his ear canal, and tapped it to open the line. “Gautreau.”
“Remy.” It was Will’s voice, calm and intense at the same time.
“Yeah.”
“We just got word from Charlotte PD that the FBI is on-site at your twenty.”
The sound of running feet echoed down the alley.
“Oh yeah,” Remy agreed. “They’re here.”
“Where’s Shel? He’s not answering.”
“Shel’s inside.” Remy tried the back door. It was locked.
“What’s going on there?”
Remy watched helplessly as four men entered the alley from either end. They carried flashlights and military-style assault rifles.
“Put the pistol on the ground!” one of the arriving men yelled. He wore an FBI jacket over his bulletproof vest. “Do it now!”
“You might want to get hold of the FBI,” Remy stated calmly. He let his pistol drop to hang from his finger. “Let them know that you’ve got two men out here working this.”
“They know,” Will said. “Maggie’s already sent them copies of your photo IDs.”
“Good to know,” Remy said. But it didn’t make him feel any better.
The four FBI agents locked into position along the alley.
“Drop the gun!” the man bellowed again.