Birds of a Feather

by Don Easton

  “Thanks, my friend,” said Adams.

  “I am sorry I cannot help you further.”

  “I already have backup on this side of the border. Four FBI agents.”

  “That is not many.”

  “It’s not like we have the time … or the authority. I don’t even know how far these FBI guys will go. They’re feds. I can’t count on them to break the rules.”

  “Then I wish you luck. If you find him and somehow rescue him, do not use the border crossings going back. They will be waiting for you.”

  “Thanks. If we manage to retrieve him, I know several places the illegals use. We’ll use one of them.”

  “Now you must hurry. If he is at one of the stations and is still alive, he will not be for long.”

  “Let’s hope he is only being held to inconvenience him,” offered Adams.

  “No, my friend,” replied Rubalcava sadly, giving Adams’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. “If that was simply the case, the men in my office would not even have been told … let alone be as pleased as they are.”

  Adams called the four FBI agents. One of them, Antonio, was of Mexican heritage and suggested if he took off his suit jacket and tie, he might be able to blend in enough to do some close-up reconnaissance. The decision of what to do was given to Adams, as Patton was his partner.

  The FBI agents were still in the heart of Juarez and with the amount of traffic it would take them about an hour to check out the police station in the southeast. Adams was about forty-five minutes away from the northwest station and an hour and a half away from the southeast station. He decided to send the four FBI agents to the southeast station while he headed in the opposite direction.

  During the forty-five-minute drive, Adams thought of what he would do if he believed his partner was inside. Adams had been trained by the United States military as a Special Forces commando and was an expert marksman with a variety of weapons. His talent in that regard was still used. He was a reservist and was occasionally called upon for brief missions.

  Adams’s plan was simple. If Greg is there I’ll bust in and take him out … the Mexicans are lousy shots, anyway …

  When Adams arrived, he drove past the station and saw it had its front door propped open. People casually visited with one another near the entrance while citizens were coming and going out of the building.

  He’s not here!

  Adams gritted his jaw, determined to fight back the tears of frustration as he spun his car around and raced back across the city to the southeast section.

  Antonio walked down the block toward the southeast police station, his eyes taking in the situation all the while. A woman ahead of him tried to open the front door of the station and found it was locked. She peered in through the window, then quickly stepped back and hurried off down the sidewalk.

  When Antonio reached the station he knew why the woman had left in a rush. From within the station he heard the terrified scream of a man in agony pleading for his life … in English.

  Antonio hurried back to the car to report his findings. Adams was still over an hour away and three hours had passed since Patton was captured. The four FBI agents decided not to wait. They also knew what they were about to do was illegal and could cost them their jobs … if they lived to have a job.

  Antonio returned and pounded on the door of the police station with his fists. A voice from within told him to go away and come back later. Antonio persisted and yelled that his wife had been raped. Again, he was told to come back later. Antonio continued to pound and when his fist cracked the glass, a policeman cursed and came with a billy club in his hand and jerked the door open.

  Antonio’s response was to stick his gun in the policeman’s face while putting one finger to his lips as a signal not to talk. The other three agents rushed past Antonio toward a doorway leading into the holding-cell area. Before they could make it, another policeman appeared in the doorway and yelled to warn the others.

  Pandemonium broke out as the agents raced inside. Three of the six policemen in the holding-cell area had time to fumble their pistols out of their holsters, but hesitated to shoot when they saw that the agents had already taken specific aim at them.

  A barrage of screaming ensued before the Mexican policemen backed up a little, leaving Patton hanging like a naked wet rag doll on the side of the cell.

  Patton was left where he was until the seventh policeman was ushered into the holding area by Antonio. Antonio and another agent used their own keys to remove the handcuffs from Patton, whose legs buckled beneath him as he was laid on the floor.

  Antonio ran out to retrieve the car while the other three agents remained with their weapons pointed at the policemen. The sound of screeching tires announced Antonio’s return, seconds before he ran back inside.

  There was more yelling amongst the agents and the Mexicans, who were still pointing their weapons at each other. The agents tried to order the Mexicans into the cell, but they refused. Finally, one of the agents grabbed Patton’s pants off the floor, and, along with another agent, lifted the injured man by the shoulders and dragged him out of the room.

  “The first person to follow us outside will be shot,” warned Antonio, as he and the remaining agent slowly backed out.

  From the front door of the police station, Patton uttered his first words. “The notebook!” he blubbered. “Get the notebook!”

  His comments were ignored as he was rushed from the station and tossed into the car.

  Seconds later, the squealing of tires told the Mexican policemen it was safe and they ran out onto the street. By then, the agents had already turned a corner and sped out of sight.

  Adams received a call a minute later. Jubilation was slightly tempered. They knew every policeman in the city would be made aware of their escape. Trumped-up charges would follow. Charges that would be hard to refute once you were dead.

  “They’ll have machine-gun nests set up at every crossing,” warned Adams. “When you get close to the border, you’ll have to ditch the car and go on foot. I’ll show you where.”

  One hour later, the four FBI agents, carrying Patton, staggered back into the United States.[1]

  Patton was rushed to the University Medical Center Hospital in El Paso. He was hysterical, incoherent, and crying. He wanted to tell them something, but kept breaking down before he could get the words out. He was sedated and drifted out of consciousness.

  Over the weekend, Patton was still listed as being in shock and only his wife was allowed in to see him. It would be Monday morning before he had recovered enough to be debriefed.

  [1] The four FBI agents were never officially recognized for their act of heroism. Instead, they received disciplinary action for acting on their own and not going through official channels. They were allowed to keep their jobs, but were immediately transferred to separate regions across the United States.

  chapter six

  * * *

  Early Saturday morning found Jack Taggart slowly cruising through an upscale neighbourhood in Vancouver. He had obtained Earl Porter’s address, which was a penthouse condo on Beach Avenue, overlooking the False Creek marina. Besides his Mustang, the Motor Vehicle Branch also listed Porter as owning a silver pickup truck.

  The apartment building was monitored with closed-circuit television cameras and had a secure underground parking lot, but Jack simply bided his time and gained entry by quickly walking through the garage door after a car had entered. A quick look for Porter’s vehicles resulted in locating his convertible Mustang, but the pickup truck was gone. From the layer of pockmarked dust on the Mustang, Jack knew Porter hadn’t driven it for over a week since the last rainfall.

  On Sunday night, Jack returned to the condo and saw that the lights to the penthouse were not on. He pushed the intercom regardless, ready to pretend it was a mistake, but there was no response.

  On Monday morning at ten o’clock, Jack was scheduled to testify at the trial of several Satans Wrath motorcycle gang mem
bers who had been charged with conspiracy to traffic in cocaine. Jack, as an undercover operative with the RCMP Intelligence Unit, normally avoided going to court. He was, however, considered an expert when it came to organized crime and Satans Wrath in particular. He had well-documented evidence Satans Wrath was a criminal empire that had successfully clawed and murdered its way to become an international organized-crime syndicate.

  The club had chapters in dozens of countries and was involved in almost every criminal venture a person could think of, including murder, extortion, drug trafficking, prostitution, bribery, theft, and loan-sharking. The crown was hoping to prove gangsterism charges under some relatively new sections of the Criminal Code.

  It was only nine o’clock and Jack decided he had time before court to make another quick visit to Porter’s condo. His timing was perfect. As he drove up to the condo, he saw Porter’s silver pickup truck entering the garage.

  Jack called Connie Crane, who was a veteran homicide investigator with the RCMP and assigned to the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team. Jack had worked with her on past investigations and although Connie had often voiced her objections to Jack’s style of policing, he still highly respected her.

  Jack quickly filled Connie in on what Marcie had told him about Lily Rae and what he had discovered about Porter from Drug Section.

  “He’s home now, CC. How long will it take you to interview him? Half an hour is all I’m asking.”

  “I do homicides, not missing persons.”

  “Yeah, like all the missing persons who showed up at the pig farm.”

  “That’s a low blow, Jack, even for you. You know how awful I feel about that case.”

  “Sorry … I know you’re dedicated … and overworked. We all are.”

  “Why me?”

  “Next to a polygraph operator, you’re the best person I know at sniffing out a liar.”

  “Thanks, I think I smell one now over the phone. Why don’t you do it?” Connie asked.

  “If you do it and think he’s done something to her, then I’ll try a UC approach. I don’t want him knowing who I really am.”

  “Christ … yeah, okay. I’ll do it.”

  “Thanks, CC. I owe you one,” said Jack.

  “Hey, with you involved, I should be happy I’m not coming over to look at a body. Are you going to wait until I get there?”

  “Can’t. I have to be in Supreme Court at ten.”

  “What? You really do go to court sometimes?” said Connie sarcastically. “I never knew you to actually arrest someone. I thought when you were done with the bad guys you handed them over to the coroner.”

  Jack chuckled. “Don’t give me too much credit. This isn’t for anyone I busted. I have to give expert testimony and tell a judge that Satans Wrath really are a criminal group operating in concert with each other.”

  “Everyone knows about Satans Wrath. Tell the judge to read a newspaper.”

  “The prosecutor thinks I’ll be done by eleven.”

  “You never know how long an interview will take. I’ll call you or leave a message as soon as I’ve talked to him.”

  Jack gave his evidence and was off the stand by eleven. He had not heard back from CC yet and as he was the last witness, he decided to sit in the courtroom and listen to the summations by the Crown and the defence lawyers. The courtroom was almost empty, with the exception of a couple of wives and girlfriends. The defence lawyers knew it wouldn’t help their cause to show their solidarity by having it packed full of bikers.

  The only club member who did show up to watch was dressed in a suit and tie and looked like the wealthy businessman he was. Damien was the national president of the club and he and Jack knew each other well. Too well, in both their opinions.

  The judge was about to render a decision when Connie stuck her head inside the courtroom and motioned for Jack to come out into the hallway.

  “You got time to talk?” she asked.

  “Yes, we’re about done here. I think the judge has to get back to Disneyland.”

  “Where’s your sidekick?”

  “I’m flying solo these days. Laura’s on holidays. Gone for three weeks. So how did it go with Porter?”

  “I talked to him. To start with, he is paranoid as hell. Something has him scared. I had to hold my badge up to the camera at the front door before he let me in. He even locked the door once I was inside.”

  “What about Lily Rae?”

  “No sign of her. I asked when he had last seen her and he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. It was more like he wanted to know whatever I knew. Things like, ‘What makes you think I would know where she is?’ or, ‘If something happened to her, I had nothing to do with it.’”

  “The bastard.”

  “He’s really insolent … kind of got my goat. I tell ya, he’s one guy I’d feel almost justified in smacking around. In the end, he said he dumped her over a week ago and didn’t know where she was.”

  “Maybe he did and she got embarrassed or something and ran away. Marcie said she had run away before.”

  “Not a chance. That son of a bitch has done something to her.”

  “You absolutely certain?” asked Jack.

  “One hundred percent. You should have seen his face. A kid in kindergarten could have seen he was lying. I think we should get our ducks in a row. Maybe check his phone records and talk to his neighbours. Find out if anyone heard any fights or anything and then bring him in and really question him. If he doesn’t lawyer up, I bet I could get him to crack within an hour.”

  “How did you leave it with him?”

  “I remained noncommittal because I wanted to talk to you first. I didn’t want to freak him out any worse than he is and get him to thinking he should call a lawyer. I gave him my card and told him to give me a call if he heard from her or remembered something.”

  “I doubt you’ll get much in the way of phone records. If he and his buddy Clive Slater are dealing coke, they’ll be changing cellphones faster than you change your panties. I think you —”

  Jack stopped talking as Damien exited the courtroom and walked over to them.

  “Good day, Corporal Taggart,” said Damien with a smile. “Hope you have a pleasant afternoon. I know I will,” he added, before walking away.

  “What was that all about?” asked Connie.

  “He was letting me know the judge didn’t accept my evidence.”

  “What? You’re kidding! Everyone knows Satans Wrath’s history of murder and dope dealing. How could a judge even consider the idea that they’re not in it as a criminal venture?”

  Jack shrugged and said, “Your guess is probably about as good as mine. Maybe the new law wasn’t worded to the judge’s liking. Or it could be one of a number of other things. The judge could be scared, obtuse, bought off, or has a utopian belief that any potential violation of civil rights outweighs the need to protect society as a whole. Take your pick.”

  “You don’t seem all that upset,” noted Connie.

  Jack shrugged and said, “I’ve lost all faith in the justice system. Nothing surprises me anymore.”

  Connie studied Jack for a moment. Of course you don’t believe in the justice system. Explains why you completely ignore it a lot of the time. You prefer to send people directly to the morgue …

  “Now, back to Porter,” continued Jack. “Do your thing first. Get your ducks in a row and bring him in for proper questioning.”

  “Sounds good. Hopefully he doesn’t lawyer up.”

  Jack’s face remained impassive, hiding what he was thinking. For his sake, he better hope he talks to you. Otherwise I’ll get him to talk my way …

  chapter seven

  * * *

  In El Paso, the sun had barely cracked the eastern horizon Monday morning when Adams went to the hospital. Becky was at her husband’s bedside when he arrived, but when she saw Adams, she quickly got up and met him at the door.

  “Becky, I’m so sorry,” said Adams. “How’s he
doing?”

  “Awful, but he wants to talk to you. He spent most of yesterday under sedation, but when he was awake, he kept asking for you.”

  “The doctors said to let him get some rest and give him time to settle down before debriefing him.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I’m just glad we got him back.”

  “What is there to say?” she replied bitterly. “Except that it’s over. We’re done with this shit,” she added defiantly. “I can’t take it anymore. As soon as he’s out of here he’s putting in his papers to resign … and don’t you try to talk him out of it,” she added, vehemently.

  “I won’t,” replied Adams softly. “I don’t blame him. I expected he would quit. Anybody would.”

  Becky studied his face, wondering if he was telling the truth and said, “I’ll wait out here, but keep it short. He can barely hold it together enough to say more than a sentence or two without breaking down.”

  Adams nodded and walked into the room. Patton propped himself up on the bed. His eyes were watery and one was bruised and swollen, leaving only a slit to peer out of.

  “How ya doin’, partner?” asked Adams. “Hanging in there? I’d have brought you a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, but the stores aren’t open yet. Figured it would be better than whatever prescription shit they’re feedin’ ya in here.”

  “I’m not good, John,” admitted Patton. “I’m … I’m finished. I’m quitting. It’s my idea as much as Becky’s.”

  “I know, she told me,” replied Adams, sitting down. “Don’t blame you a bit. Yesterday Yolanda and I talked about it, too … and we don’t have any kids.”

  Talk between Adams and Yolanda of quitting was a lie, but it was a lie Adams felt his partner needed to hear. The truth was that Adams was too enraged to quit. He wanted to get even. He wanted justice.