“Carlos, you are, in fact, our guy. You and your friends did good tonight. As I understand it, you’ve got two thousand owed to the guys your friends engaged, who apparently handled the job successfully. What do you know about it?” I asked.
“I just know about those guys. They’re hardcore. You don’t mess with them or you get hurt. But they’re good to their friends. Enrique’s friend Noah knows them. He got them.”
“Do you know what happened at the scene, what these guys did?”
“No. I just know they went, handled things, and my friends got your car.”
“Okay, here’s what I want to do,” I said, opening my second briefcase and reaching in. “Your friends owe two thousand. I’m going to give you three for those guys who did the job. What do I call them?”
“We just know him as Pablo. He’s the chief, no doubt about that.”
“Okay, Pablo. Three for Pablo. I’m going to give you eight thousand dollars total, in cash,” I said, retrieving the pack of hundred-dollar bills that I had broken open earlier for Carlos, Enrique, and Noah. I handed it to him. “Give the three to Enrique for Pablo, or better, you can give it directly to Pablo. Give a thousand each to Enrique and Noah. That’s five. There’s three left for you. Use it right. Make yourself important. Money can be a big power tool if you know how to use it. You have those skills, Carlos. Let these guys know that they’re getting paid only because of you.”
“I’m your guy,” he said. “Thanks. I learned something here.”
“We’re not done just yet. I paid you for tonight. I need you to be close, not necessarily here at the hotel but close enough to come or do something if we need it. And I want you to have access to Pablo and his crew. You need to be able to call him and get him involved. We may need him, tonight, tomorrow, whatever. Make it so that you can reach him.”
“I’m your guy,” he said again, which was starting to wear a little thin. I was not sure whether to continue as teacher-in-chief or just move on. I decided to move on.
“Let’s go,” I said. All doors opened; we exited the Highlander. Carlos made a big effort to give me and Lenny sports-bro shakes and hugs, and even hugged Lauren, which I found touching. We took our stuff and walked into the Biltmore Hotel while Carlos got in his car and immediately made a call on his cell phone. He had just scored a nice chunk of money and some strategic business advantages… and I was sure he knew just how to handle both.
I wrapped my arm around Lauren as we entered the main lobby. She leaned into me, accepting what I was trying to give. It was all new to me, wanting to take care of someone like that… and yet, it felt familiar and easy. That I wanted to care for her, and protect her, that was new and different—and I liked it, but I wasn’t sure if I was being successful. Guests and staff in the lobby stopped and stared at us, mainly at Lauren—the messed hair, and especially the blood across her blouse, was grisly. We moved through the lobby as quickly as possible.
At the elevators, Lenny said he wanted to take a steam and make some calls. That sounded like heaven to me, but I put any concerns for my own pleasure aside so that I could take care of Lauren. We rode the elevators to our floor and went to the end of the hallway where our respective rooms were. I said I’d call him later and invited him to do the same if anything came up. He reached out and grabbed my arm.
“Are we safe here… in the hotel?” he asked.
I hadn’t thought about it. I had just wanted to get back here and take care of Lauren. It was a good point.
“I don’t know, man. What do you suggest?”
“Let’s go into your room,” he said.
I unlocked the door to my suite, held it open, flipped the light switch, scanned briefly, and ushered Lauren in, then Lenny. I closed the door and locked it from the inside. Lenny placed his suitcase on the couch and opened it. It was filled with different objects and sections. He pulled out two Glocks and checked the mags in each; both were full. He handed them to me. “Put one out here and one in the bedroom on the nightstand next to you,” he said.
I placed them on the table. He dug back into the suitcase and took out two small electronic gadgets, each about the size of a pack of cigarettes.
“Motion detectors, addressable focus,” he said. I had seen them before. “Focus one on the door when you go to sleep,” he said. “Focus the other one on the balcony doors. If they trip, they just ring—not too loudly, but you know someone’s coming.”
I took them and placed them on the table next to the guns.
He closed the suitcase and snapped it shut. He first went to Lauren and engulfed her in a bear hug. “You are one tough woman, Ms. Lauren,” he said, gently rocking her in a loving embrace. She leaned her head into his chest and absorbed the gesture. He released her, gave me the usual sports-bro shake and hug, and said, “I’m right across the hall.” Then he was gone.
I closed and locked the door. When I turned around, Lauren was standing next to me. We embraced, a deep connection with lots of meaning and emotion. I held on without a thought of breaking it off. This was not my usual way of dealing with meaningful emotional stuff, which was to resist or just cut loose. Not now! I wanted to give what I had and make her feel better.
We stood there for at least three minutes, savoring each other, not moving, aware that we were now in a safe and secure place.
Or so we thought.
* * *
The government G650 jet landed at the Stuart airport and taxied to an area distant from any hangars or buildings. There were four black Chevy Suburbans waiting, engines running. As the plane stopped and chocks were placed under its wheels by an airport worker, FBI Agent Chad Green exited the lead Suburban and approached.
The plane’s door came down before the engines had spooled down, and six FBI Special Weapons and Tactics (SWAT) team members from the Washington, DC, main office deplaned. Each was dressed in black tactical clothing with a belt full of tools and carried a standard-issue silenced MK sub-machine gun, safety on. Agent Green and the SWAT team exchanged greetings. Two SWAT team members each got into separate Suburbans and closed the doors crisply, and the cars moved out in military transport fashion, driving close together with flashing emergency lights signaling to civilians to get out of the way. The convoy left the airport and headed directly to Monterey Commons.
Agent Green was on his comm unit to an observer on site.
“Subjects in place, come on in,” a voice said to him.
The convoy drove into the entrance of Monterey Commons. An FBI agent jumped out of the second car and entered the guardhouse. He encountered Curtis, the guard, who was apparently doing a double shift today.
“We have an arrest warrant for one of your residents, a Mr. Garcia, and four of his known associates. We are going to enter your community. I will stay here with you. There is to be no communication to that individual. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir,” Curtis said with no hesitation and no doubt about how to handle the situation.
“I will remain here with you, understand?” the agent said.
“Yes sir, I understand,” Curtis said, raising his palms and smiling. “Let me open the gate for you.” Which he did. The convoy moved out silently toward the residence of Santo Garcia.
The convoy parked one block from the Garcia house. The tactical team operators, together with Agent Green and another agent—both wearing blue jackets with large FBI lettering—exited the Suburbans. The SWAT team leader had some final words with his team. Then they walked with practiced footing toward Garcia’s house. The two agents in FBI jackets walked behind them and would be stationed outside the house on the street to deal with any approaching residents or external problems.
At the Garcia house, the front gate was closed and locked. There were two cars parked in the driveway. All six SWAT members jumped over the fence with ease and moved to their pre-agreed positions. Two went behind the house
. Two took positions at the front corners, and two approached the front door. All six switched their safeties off. The leader, at the front door, spoke into his cuff mike, “Executing now. Repeat: executing now.” Guns went to shoulders; attack positions were assumed. It was action time, SWAT style.
The leader knocked on the door. “FBI. Open the door!” He waited the standard five seconds, then repeated, “FBI. Open the door.”
A face appeared in a window and the leader heard some muffled voices, then gave a third warning. “FBI. Open the door or we’re coming in.”
The door opened. Santo Garcia started to say something, but he did not get the chance. The leader sprang forward and knocked him to the ground, using his gun as a battering ram across Santo’s chest. Commotion sounded in the back of the house. The second team member rushed in behind the leader.
“FBI,” they both yelled several times.
A woman was seated on a couch, her face horrified at the breach. Garcia started to get up. The leader jabbed his gun into Garcia’s gut, which flattened him on the floor, while the second operator kept the room scanned and under control. The leader rolled Garcia onto his stomach and flex cuffed his hands behind his back. The woman drew her hands to her face, which drew the attention of the second member—he pointed his weapon at her. She froze. More commotion emanated from the back of the house.
The two members at the rear of the house had taken designated positions on either side of the back door. They could hear the takedown in the living room. Suddenly, the back door burst open, and a man ran out, followed by a second man.
“Stop! FBI!” yelled one of the team.
It did not work. The first man had a gun in his hand and pointed it toward the operator. The first agent cut him down with a silenced triple tap. The man went down with three bullet holes in the center of his chest. The second man saw this and raised his hands immediately. He did not have a gun in his hand.
Pointing his weapon, the operator yelled, “Get down. Get down on the ground.”
He complied without hesitation, got face down on the ground with his arms straight out. He was flex tied by one member while the other continued to scan the doorway for further threats. The remaining SWAT team members in the front had entered the house and were going from room to room, reporting “clear” as each room was assessed for people and threats. A similar “clear” report came from behind the house.
Santo Garcia, his wife, and one of his associates were placed under arrest per the warrant. Another associate was determined to be dead on site.
Agent Green and the other agent entered the house after jumping over the gate, perhaps without the physical ease of the elite SWAT members. Agent Green called for an ambulance and ordered the FBI investigative team to go through the house and secure evidence of criminal activity. Then he called Agent Ross and reported the results.
* * *
My focus was to assist Lauren with healing and recuperation. She had suffered through a horrific day, including shooting and killing a large man who had been in the vicious act of kidnapping her. And that had taken place in the context of four other dead bodies lying nearby, drenched in blood and riddled with bullet holes—all of this in the normally calm, sometimes boring place where she worked every day. I started the healing process as soon as Lenny retreated to his room.
I asked her what she would like to eat. She wanted a meal with protein and vegetables, mashed potatoes, and a brownie for dessert. I loved it; after all that had transpired, she still had a hearty appetite. Checking the menu, I suggest chicken cordon bleu, and she smiled. Next for her was a shower. While she was scrubbing off the highly negative vibrations of the day, I spoke to James. He was making good progress on the beacon tracing and promised results “soon.”
By the time she came out of the bathroom wearing the fluffy hotel bathrobe, room service had brought the meal. We ate at the table and discussed the day’s events without the emotionality and drama that could have clouded the conversation. She was a strong woman. She recognized what had happened, realized that she had come through it without physical injury—well, maybe a stiff neck—and that it was necessary to move on. The more I saw of her, the more I liked what I was seeing… and feeling.
It was close to eleven p.m. I suggested that she take some of the melatonin I always have with me, three-milligram time-release tabs. She agreed. I gave her two. Since they take about thirty to forty-five minutes to take effect, I suggested that I give her a massage, to which she quickly agreed. I put her on the bed and gave it my best. I felt she still had a lot of tension in her body. She was definitely more relaxed after, and the melatonin was starting to kick in. He eyes were heavy. I tucked her in bed, held her from a sitting position for a few minutes, and said some nice things to her. She was asleep already when I finished. I turned off the light and exited the bedroom, closing the door gently behind me.
I too had had a long and challenging day. I sat at my worktable and reflected for a moment. It had started with the crazy scene at the court, with Lev running out of the courtroom and the big man getting arrested. In a most bizarre dynamic, that big man had somehow gotten out of police custody, gone to Prime Mortgage in the afternoon, tried to kidnap Lauren, and been shot and killed by her. Bad karma! Lenny and I had flown to the Cayman Islands, where we had refinanced the Siroco bank account and made my client, Sabra Security, whole. That we had been able to secure a lot more than the amount of the original theft and use that extra to compensate those on our side of the case—that was a complete victory. Whether I would be able to keep that money... Well, I felt good about my chances of success. I mean, who is Daryl Chapman?
We had flown back to a horrific scene at Prime Mortgage. This kind of human carnage was not something I was used to, and the same with Lenny and poor Lauren. At least she was sleeping deeply. Whatever had happened with Carlos and his friends to get our car back, all’s well that ends well.
Just then, my sat phone chimed. It was James. I accepted.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey man. I’ve got three definites. I’ve isolated three phones, all burners, that were within five feet of that beacon when it came out of the FBI building. I’ve got a tracker on each… but they’re tricky, Derek. The phones shut down at different times. Then they come on and make a quick call, which of course I’m tracing. It’s going good, man.” He was almost breathless.
“Where are they right now?” I asked.
“They’re all shut down. The program will notify me when they come back on,” he said. “I’m assuming they think they’re tricky. Probably won’t get new burners.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “Listen, I’m about ready to drop here. Can you stay on this? Call me if something comes up. Man, I’m beat.”
“Sure, go to sleep. Back to you soon. Oh, I’m staying at the lab tonight. Don’t forget to count that.” Follow the money. We clicked off.
That was good news. It was a nice coda to what I saw as a successful day in the life of Derek Randall, cyber security expert. Time to officially wind it down.
I put my phones on vibrate, then placed my yoga mat on the floor in the living room, did a flow of my favorite postures to complete the relaxation process, and did some quiet yoga breathing and a very short meditation, and that was it. I rolled up the mat and put it in the corner. I placed one of the motion detectors in the front room, focused on the door, and the second one at the back of the suite, focused on the sliding doors going out to the balcony. The bedroom had a separate balcony with sliding doors, but I only had two of these devices, so that was that.
I placed one of the Glocks Lenny had left with me on my workspace; the other one was already in the bedroom on the night table on my side of the bed. That I had a side of the bed with Lauren caught my attention—it was such a pleasant thought. My side… her side… our bed. Was I getting ahead of myself, or maybe just dealing more intelligently wit
h my new reality? Whatever; I liked it.
I turned off all the lights in the suite and, as quietly and softly as possible, I slipped into our bed. Lauren was definitely asleep, on her left side, breathing rhythmic breaths. I moved close to her and placed my arm over her in the spooning position she seemed to like. She mumbled something; it was unintelligible but sounded positive, so I held her for a few minutes. I moved back to my side of our bed and began my process of slipping off into a deep slumber. It was not difficult. I was sound asleep in two minutes.
* * *
Horatio Gonzalez knew he was in big trouble when he clicked off the call with Santo Garcia. An imposter had come into his bank, sat in front of him, given the information required, apparently faked a call to his client, and walked out of the bank with thirteen-point-two million dollars. It had been a broad-daylight, white-collar theft pulled off by professionals. The client, Santo Garcia, had many accounts at the bank and paid large fees to the bank. But it was not the bank that Gonzalez was worried about.
After reporting the theft to 9-1-1, his next call to Lev Lavorosky made him sick. He knew what kind of man Lavorosky was. Garcia had told him on one of his visits to the island: “Lavorosky is a killer; don’t ever mess with him.”
In that brief call, Lavorosky had instructed him to wire the money out of the two remaining accounts, sixty-seven million and thirty million, but he did not have the new bank name, account, and routing numbers handy. And he had never called back with the critical information. Gonzalez had waited for an hour for that call. He took what he considered prudent banker action: he mechanically blocked the two Siroco accounts so that nobody could touch them without his personal approval. Not even Santo Garcia could withdraw from or move these two accounts. It was an action that would result in an equal and opposite reaction: i.e., there would be consequences.
After dealing with the Cayman police detectives and giving them the details he had about the imposter, as well as a copy of the security footage, he called his wife.
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