by JT Sawyer
31
Cal acquired another vehicle and drove for a half-hour to College Park, four miles northeast of DC. He took a slow route around the playground that Vogel had indicated for the dead drop.
Once he was relatively certain that the place wasn’t being monitored, he drove three blocks away and parked.
Cal wore his tan slacks and blue polo shirt along with a brimmed hat and sunglasses. Crossing the street, he headed to the edge of the playground beside the well-manicured lawn of a public library. He pulled out his phone, pretending he was conversing as he strolled along, scanning the other people.
He stopped next to a large elm tree, leaning against the trunk. Cal scanned the nearest park bench, which was situated near where Vogel had indicated. He continued his faux conversation, casually strolling over to the bench and sitting down. Letting his right hand dangle by the side, he felt underneath the steel frame and removed a small tin held in place with a magnet. Cal got up and resumed walking along the pathway then took a circular route back to his stolen vehicle.
Opening the tin, he saw a square of paper with an address in Elkton, Maryland, northeast of Baltimore. He memorized the street name and number, folding the paper continuously until it was a tiny patch, then he stuck it into the cigarette lighter in the dashboard.
32
FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC
“Carter, come look at this,” said Corelli.
She leaned over his shoulder, examining the grainy image of several men entering the white catering van outside of Burke’s estate. “I was able to retrieve a few frames off the surviving camera down the hill from the house. Any of these guys look familiar?”
She narrowed her eyes at the two on the right. “Yeah, the shooters from the bridge who nearly killed Tremblay.”
He pointed to the man by the driver’s side, enhancing the image until the shoes were visible. “See that shiny spot above his left shoe?”
“Yeah, so?”
“That’s got the sheen and the unusual curvature it does because it’s a prosthetic. Plus, the color is off from the rest of his darker complexion, so it’s probably an older model, from before we had the color matching like we do today.”
She stared at the image, her lips widening into a grin. She patted Corelli on the shoulder. “You’re a genius. Now, get me a location for that guy.”
33
Cal sat in the stolen Nissan, two blocks away from the address in Elkton that Vogel had provided. The graffiti-riddled two-story house and surrounding structures resembled something from Mogadishu. The only thing missing was a layer of sand in all the doorways and windowsills.
There had been little activity for the past thirty minutes until a group of men exited the rear door, standing by their cars. Shepard felt his ribs constrict when he zoomed in on the older man near the trash bins.
Montoya. He recalled the brief glimpse of the man in Burke’s driveway. He still wasn’t a hundred percent certain it was him, but he was sure that the gangly figure beside him was the driver as he stared at the man’s prosthetic leg.
A vein throbbed in Shepard’s neck. He wanted to ram his vehicle into the crowd, emptying his pistol into the animals.
He clutched the steering wheel with one hand, taking a deep breath and watching Montoya get into a blue Jetta then head south as the other men went inside the house.
Shepard started his car, pulling out and following the Colombian gangster from a safe distance. The trip through the city took him onto the highway for twelve miles, after which Montoya exited along a two-lane road that led to a regional airport. He slowed down, letting the Jetta gain some distance on the empty street.
Cal pulled off on a service road to the right, opposite the airfield, then got out of his car and walked into the woods near the shoulder. Scanning the small hangar across from him, he saw the Jetta pull up, and Montoya exit.
The Colombian grabbed a suitcase from the back seat then walked to the open bay of the steel hangar to meet another man in a blue shirt and tan pants.
Cal felt a surge of acid in his throat as the sight of Tim Rourke filled his binoculars.
Of course, he must have provided satellite intel on Burke’s place and was the one who knew about the test run for Perseus over Caracas. He clutched the binoculars. That motherfucker!
After Montoya handed off the suitcase to Rourke and watched the man drive off, the Colombian boarded a small jet already lining up for takeoff.
Shepard slipped further back into the trees as a vehicle sped by, watching Rourke head to the highway. He waited a few minutes until the jet took off, then he got back into his stolen vehicle and changed quickly into his suit pullover.
Driving to the small administration building next to the hangar, Cal ran his hands through his hair then adjusted his clothing before heading inside. He strode with purpose, pulling his shoulders back and removing the FBI badge he’d lifted off of Tremblay during the bridge shootout.
“Can I help you, sir?” said the young woman behind the front desk.
“Agent James Tremblay with the FBI. I’ve been following an individual who is a potential suspect in an ongoing investigation, and I believe he just left here in that jet that departed a few minutes ago. I need to see the flight manifest.”
She looked at Shepard then down at the badge on the counter. “Of course.” She swiveled around in her seat, typing on her computer. Cal glanced around the tiny office, seeing only a custodian mopping the lounge area at the back.
“That flight is inbound for a private airstrip in West Texas, arriving this evening at 4:30 p.m.”
“What name did the man that just boarded give?”
She pressed her face closer to the screen. “I’m not showing a name other than that he is a guest.”
“Guest of whom?”
“The jet is owned by Ian Landis of Virginia.”
Shepard rested his arms on the counter, scanning the screen. “I’ll need an address for Mr. Landis, please, and for the ranch in Texas.”
The woman jotted some notes then turned around, handing Cal the paper. “Here’s the address for Ian Landis, but there were only GPS coordinates for the ranch, so those are at the bottom.”
He grabbed his badge and the paper, thanking her then heading back out to the parking lot. Despite the muggy air, he felt a cool chill run down his back.
The pieces are beginning to fall into place.
34
After driving back to the Colombian safehouse where he’d first spotted Montoya, Cal parked his stolen car then walked three blocks through a rundown neighborhood that made him grateful that he was packing a pistol.
Cal paused in the shade of a maple tree, quickly scanning the street in either direction then studying the windows and rooftop of the run-down house ahead. On the front porch were two men sitting on a brown couch, whose foam padding was hanging out the sides.
If he was with his team, they would have made this a surgical strike by posting a sniper on one of the rooftops to eliminate the outside sentries in front while he and the other operators came in through the rear with flash-bangs. Once inside, it would be a shooting gallery as they swept through each level and room, taking down any resistance, whose numbers would have been provided by Vogel via thermal imagery from a drone.
Except he was alone with only an HK pistol and thirty rounds between the mag in the weapon and the spare on his belt.
There was no turning back now.
Shepard crossed the street, loosening the single button on his suit so he could quickly access his pistol when the time came. At the intersection, he headed along the sidewalk then moved towards the front steps leading to the porch. He moved with confidence, as if he had a full tac-team in the wings to sell his coming bluff.
The two men immediately sprang up, resting their hands near the bulges protruding under their soiled t-shirts.
“You lost or something, hombre?” said the round-faced figure to the right in a Spanish accent.
He
slowly moved his jacket, exposing the FBI badge on his belt. “Special Agent James Tremblay. I’m here to talk to your boss.”
“What boss? We’re just a bunch of friends who live here. Think you got the wrong place,” said the shorter man to the right, who had green studs in his ears.
Shepard thrust his thumb at the street behind him. “You’re going to want to take me to your boss. If I have to call in my other agents and march your jefe and everyone else’s asses out here in cuffs, you two are going to get busted back to robbing liquor stores again. All you have to do is take me inside so I can ask a few questions.”
The two men looked at each other then out at the other cars parked behind Shepard in the distance.
He removed his cellphone, hovering his thumb over the send button. The bigger man grimaced then stepped aside, waving Shepard up to the porch. The heavily tattooed bruiser headed through the open door towards the back stairwell.
Shepard reconned each room as he passed by, noting the number of people inside and any weapons, of which there were plenty.
Four men total in the kitchen and dining room. He followed the burly figure up to the second floor, avoiding the rat droppings and crushed cigarettes along the sides. Heading down the hallway, he spotted three more men spread around the other bedrooms.
At the end of the hall was the master bedroom, which had been turned into a makeshift communal area with a rectangular table around which five men were playing cards.
The man with the prosthetic was sitting on the right, sipping a beer. Shepard wanted to empty his pistol into his chest, but he had to be methodical about his assault given the numbers in the house.
Slow and steady wins the race.
He made sure to stay just off to the left side of his shoulder so the man wasn’t making direct eye contact. He didn’t know if the guy would recall his face from the driveway at Burke’s, but so far he was in the clear, as the thug only spared him a casual glance before returning to his cards.
The burly figure from the porch leaned over to an older man at the end of the table, whispering in his ear.
“What the hell is this?” said the older man, who spat out his tobacco on the floor beside him. “You come to shake us down? We already paid up with the local cops for this month.”
Cal pulled his shoulders back, letting his rehearsed monologue flow out. “My gang taskforce and I have taken over this region of the city and are investigating a rash of killings connected with the Serbians, who we know run the southside. You give me information on their network and I can take the heat off this area for a few weeks.”
“Fuck you and your bureau. We got no issues with the Serbs. They respect our territory.” The man’s obstinance made the others lean back and lower their cards, staring at Shepard.
He noted the pistols at each person’s waist then scanned their faces. These were some hardened men, but two stood out as being the most feral; he would have to drop them first.
Shepard moved closer to the goon with the prosthetic while keeping his eyes on the leader. “Maybe you don’t read much, but the news has been all over the massive influx of Serbian immigrants into Baltimore. You really think they’re going to respect your territory once there are more mouths to feed? They’re already expanding into the surrounding cities and increasing their cash flow from their enterprises.” He looked down at the open duffle bag of money on the floor beside the older man.
“Let me guess—I give you some information on the Serbs and a big wad of bills then you leave us alone…is that it, big man?” The older man chuckled, his missing teeth causing spittle to fly onto the table. The others joined in, their laughter exuding nervousness. “Or maybe you expect a few kilos of coke instead?”
“That’s kind of a stereotype, don’t you think—that Colombians deal in cocaine? From what I’ve heard, you’re a more resourceful individual who has his hands in everything.” He inched closer to the younger man from the catering van. “I was hoping we could make a trade.”
“For what, gringo?” said the boss.
He looked down at the man with the prosthetic. “His life for all of yours. You let me take him and the rest of you can live.”
The young man beside him pivoted in his seat, staring up at Shepard.
Shepard’s jaw clenched, the rage in him flowing through every fiber in his being. “You don’t remember me, but I sure as hell remember you from that party. Remember, the one you catered…where you killed my wife and my friends.”
The men’s faces grew taut, the air crackling with tension. As the man beside him bolted up, Shepard grabbed his thin arm at the wrist, twisting it, then slammed his head onto the top of a beer bottle. The figure collapsed to the ground as the other men slid from their seats.
Shepard grabbed the fork off the table, driving it into the eye of the man to his left, who recoiled in agony, then Shepard flipped the table into the faces of the two men across from him, whipping out his pistol and firing two rounds into the older man’s chest as he reached for his 1911.
Shepard darted to the right, squeezing off a flurry of rounds into the men climbing out from under the table, striking them in their faces, then he swung to the left, shooting the big man rushing for the door. He caught him in the floating ribs, causing him to drop to his knees.
Shepard rushed up, putting a single round into his skull then turning and shooting the man impaled with the fork. He slowly leaned out into the hallway, seeing two men rushing towards him. His HK pistol coughed out its remaining rounds into their chests. He dropped out the mag, inserting a fresh one from under his jacket just as the drywall around his face exploded from machinegun fire erupting out of the last bedroom. Cal pulled back, waiting for the comforting sound of the rifle clicking, then leaned out, pumping two rounds into the gangbanger’s neck and chest.
He backpedaled, retrieving the 1911 and a Glock from the dead henchmen, tucking them into his belt, then he darted across the hallway into the bedroom opposite the communal room. He heard shouting from below, followed by footsteps as the rest of the cartel members bolted up the steps.
Shepard listened for their approach, seeing the first man pivot towards the community room with an AK. Shepard fired a single round into the back of his skull then swung his HK and the Glock to the right, shooting the next figure in the abdomen. He zippered the second figure with bullets up his chest while driving him back into the others trying to squeeze up the steps.
He unleashed both pistols upon the remaining men, hearing their weapons briefly barking back in his direction as they haphazardly tried to kill the maniacal creature rushing at them.
Shepard saw the slide of the Glock slide back as the last two men collapsed. He flung down the pistol, pulling out the 1911 just as the skinny man from the porch was jumping down the steps to the ground floor. A single .45 round caught him in the left leg, and his wiry figure collapsed into a small table against the wall.
Shepard stepped over the bullet-riddled bodies, making his way down the staircase towards the gangly man, who was sobbing and trying to crawl away.
“Please, Mr.… Mercy…please have mercy.”
“I’m fresh out,” he said, pulling the trigger.
Shepard surveyed the front and rear entrances, peering out the windows then trotting back upstairs. Entering the communal room, he grabbed the young man with the prosthetic by his arm and hoisted him up onto a chair, then he secured his hands behind his legs and arms with a roll of duct tape he found under the sink.
Shepard splashed a glass of cold water into the man’s face. He flung his head up, staring at the carnage around the room.
“Who hired you to plant that bomb at Burke’s place?”
The man’s expression changed from outrage to anger. He narrowed his eyes, spitting at Shepard.
Cal wiped his face then walked to the oven, turning on the front burner. He dragged the man’s chair up to the stove then leaned his face in towards the flame.
The man screamed, shaking his head.
Shepard tilted him back away from the oven. “Who hired you? Was it that guy in the leather jacket I saw leaving here earlier…Montoya? I followed him to a small airport. Where was he going?”
The man licked his lips then spit on Shepard again, cursing in Spanish.
Shepard turned on the remaining burners then grabbed a bottle of bourbon from the counter and poured it over the man’s head. He slowly slid the chair forward, and the man’s eyes filled his face as he neared the flames.
“Stop, alright… Montoya, Carlos Montoya. He used to head up the Carmesi Cartel in Colombia. He hired us to do the job at that mansion.”
“For whom? Who was paying you?”
“I don’t know his name, but the guy who paid us just told Montoya to send some of our men to his house, someplace down by Bethesda, to watch over him.”
“Did you guys steal all the hardware from Burke’s company too?”
“Steal? What are you talkin’ about? We only did the hit on that house then torched the van by an abandoned factory.”
“And where was Montoya flying to? I saw him at a small airport on the other side of town. The flight manifest indicated he was heading somewhere in Texas.”
“Shit, I don’t know…he doesn’t talk to most of us here. Just showed up a few weeks ago, telling my boss that he had work lined up with a big payoff.”
Shepard tapped his shoe against the duffle bag brimming with cash on the floor. “Is that what this is?”
“Some of it. Some is from coke.”
“Cocaine…where?”
He nodded towards a large cabinet in the corner. “Hidden at the back.”
Shepard picked up the duffle bag then walked to the other side of the room, grabbing a set of car keys off the floor.
He flung open the cabinet door then removed a faux panel of plywood stained to match the rest of the wood. Behind it was a stack of four large packages of cellophane-wrapped cocaine. Wedged beside it were three palm-sized bricks of plastic explosives.