by Alexis Grant
“Man … I thought everything was gonna blow in Miami,” Hank shot back.
“Me, too. But think about it. If his supplier needs arms, New Orleans is a good place to smuggle them out of with a base and naval air station down there. Flip some manifests, grease the right civilian palms, and it’s not too difficult to make something seem like it’s part of a military shipment from a government contractor.
“Plus, it’s a port city and right there in the Gulf—with quick access to Mexico, which has practically nonexistent security on their docks, and from there to wherever in the world. Getting stuff from Mexico to Canada or whatever isn’t a stretch. It’s not like the Big Easy’s infrastructure is fully back in place, and I don’t have to tell you that their law enforcement is maxed out, hasn’t come back since Katrina. Their port patrols are a whole lot softer than Miami’s, by a long shot. So jump on it, Hank. Our target went to the airport this morning to meet his supplier and never came back. His jet may still be in the air if they had a long meeting first, for all I know … or they most likely did the meeting on the jet and could have landed hours ago. That’s where the Captain’s MI can help. You’ve got the call letters on the craft. Maybe satellite imaging will show him debarking, what vehicle they entered, and which warehouse they headed to, et cetera.”
“We’re on it,” Hank said, quickly. “What else do you need, Wagner?”
“Tell my new best friends, Jacqueline and Suzanne, to listen for a cell phone call from me early this evening—like eight or nine P.M. I’m supposed to be hanging out with my girlfriends and having a drink.”
“Done. I’ll let agents McCoy and Whittaker know.” Hank paused. “You be careful.”
“Hank, I’m good. I’m about to get my nails done.”
She hung up and closed her eyes, fighting fatigue, and then something within made her fingers dial the number that she’d memorized during the van ride over to South Beach.
Captain Davis picked up on the first ring. She hesitated a moment and she could tell he was waiting to ID her voice.
“Captain?”
“Roger. What’s your status?”
“I’m all right.”
This time he hesitated, and it gave her a chance to process the deep baritone concern that resonated in his voice. The sound bottomed out in the pit of her stomach until her entire midsection clenched.
“Copy that,” he said. “Your location? Are you safe?”
“At the spa. Yes. And there was a development. Hank will fill you in. Your target is currently in New Orleans. I’ll be at the Ritz Carlton on Lincoln tonight, and maybe tomorrow as well. But I’m being watched.”
Again, there was a hesitation and she could hear silence crackle on the line.
“Were you injured before the target left Miami?”
“No,” she said quietly. “I never had to deal with that, and it looks like I’ll have a few days to heal. Security will be watching me while he’s out of town, so I cannot deploy to New Orleans—again, Hank will fill you in. Do you understand?”
“Affirmative. I’ll be in touch, one way or another. Copy?”
“I copy,” she said, holding the telephone more tightly. “But I have to go.”
She disconnected the call when she heard her manicurist calling for her.
“Ms. Rodriguez? I’m ready for you whenever you are ready. I just wanted to let you know … but please take your time.”
“Coming in a moment,” Sage called out in a forced, upbeat tone and then flushed the toilet. She let the water run a bit in the sink and washed her hands, slathering on soap, then lotion for complete authenticity. Reversing her earlier actions, she returned the encrypted cell phone to her locker and then went to meet Chen Lee.
The moment the young woman appraised her cheek with sad, worried eyes, Sage sighed.
“You know what … can you ask Julie if they have some kind of organic facial and maybe light massage treatments that can heal bruises? Or maybe just an ice pack?”
“We do,” Chen Lee said in a graciously quiet murmur. “That, plus soothing treatments, and the hot and cold pools, along with other water treatments will help.”
* * *
The call to Sage Wagner ended, but the impact of hearing her voice and knowing that at the moment she was all right, lingered. The urge to go to her, to see with his own eyes that she was really okay, was an irrational impulse that he had to wrestle. The muscles in his biceps twitched with the need to move, to thrust himself into action, as he pushed the remains of his lunch away and looked around the small restaurant.
There was no justifiable reason he’d stayed in South Beach, other than the fact that he’d wanted to be nearby … just in case he got an SOS call from Sage—which was ridiculous, now that he’d actually heard from her.
Despite all the beautiful people parading around South Beach, that wasn’t why he’d stayed. He could give a damn about bikini-clad coeds or vacuous celebs spending crazy amounts of money in chichi shops and eateries when he had a mission to focus on.
He’d stayed to check on Sage. That was the undeniable truth. But that, in and of itself, was insane and off mission. He wasn’t her body guard. She was a trained agent, able to take care of herself. He had to get his head together.
Rather than dwell on the two and a half hours he’d wasted riding around the area, supposedly familiarizing himself with the terrain—which, if he was honest, really amounted to little more than stalling for time and eating lunch while he hoped to figure out the impossible—he called Hank Wilson like Sage instructed. He got Hank on the second ring. The intel that Sage had been able to gather in a couple of hours blew Anthony’s mind.
Her intel from the ground, and from her position inside, was so much more effective than what he was getting at a distant, ten-thousand-foot aerial view. Although a lot of it was still laced with speculation, he trusted her gut hunches. They were logical possibilities coming from one tough, savvy, sexy woman on the inside.
He listened to Hank relay the update and could corroborate a lot of it from his side as well. According to MI, the targets weren’t making a lot of the usual mistakes, like sloppy cell phone chatter, e-mails, and other common leaks. It took one well-positioned agent on the inside to get what they needed. Therefore, to his way of viewing the world, Sage Wagner had to live long enough to be decorated for that kind of heroism.
“Agent Alvarez informs us that the top five distributors in Salazar’s camp will be coming together to take the product right before Mardi Gras—and it appears that the Salazars are also assisting Assad with brokering some weapons holding locations up in Canada through his northeast network. Salazar is in this waist-deep with Assad. So our agent is going to have to introduce you in Miami within the next day or so to get you inside,” Hank said. “Are you ready?”
“Affirmative,” Anthony stated flatly. “My chain of command is already aware of the unusual circumstances and I have clearance to proceed.”
“Good,” Hank replied. “Nice to have the army on our side going after this bullshit.”
As soon as Anthony disconnected the call with Hank Wilson, he phoned his team, driving hard toward the airport.
“I need a bird out of Miami International and I need an eleven-man unit on the ground in New Orleans. Copy?”
“I copy, Captain,” Lieutenant Hayes said. “Will get a bird cleared and a drop team ready to rock and roll. Will also position a tractor trailer in both locations with portable choppers from the 160th Airborne.”
“Roger that. Also put our MI eye in the sky on a private Gulfstream III, ID—Alpha, Charlie, Tango, three, five, niner—copy?”
“I copy. Will send sat images to your encrypted cell phone and laptop. Should be able to give you a time of landing, debark, and will do our best to track where their vehicles are headed, sir.”
“Their destination has got to be somewhere near the docks. Our partner agency’s target has warehouses there and I’ve been informed that’s where the party went. There’s a
high probability that’s how they’re gonna bring the product in—by shipping containers. But position our unit at NAS and the Joint Reserve base to be ready for a boots-on-the-ground assault backed up by a couple of Apaches.”
“Your contact at DEA confirmed New Orleans as a new target site?”
“Affirmative. High probability that contraband coming in will be done on false shipping manifests. Weapons going out in that large a quantity are going to have to pass through shipping manifests, too. Could be headed toward Mexico en route to Canada—it just can’t happen on the ground by truck, if it’s coming from a US source. Trucks are too easy to search and seize. Large vessels are a search nightmare and are practically safe once in international waters where maritime law applies. But cash can be as simple as a wire transfer or as old school as loaded in car trunks.”
“Any word on a weapons source yet, Captain?”
“Negative. Inform chain of command that our blind spot is the fact that we do not have a lock on the weapons buy yet, which can happen in Europe or anywhere in the world from old Soviet stockpiles. We have a lead link to Canada—and DEA is positioning my entry into that scenario as we speak. Remember our mission is to not only apprehend our primary target and disrupt the deal, but to also find out the source of his weapons buy and to seize his cash. Relay our updated intel to the commander via chain of command, Lieutenant.”
“Roger, Captain. Rendezvous in New Orleans. Hoooah!”
CHAPTER 6
Sage slid onto the bar stool at the Ritz Carlton and exchanged air kisses with Special Agents Andrea McCoy and Cheryl Whittaker, aka Jacqueline Perez and Suzanne White. Strategically positioning herself so that her back was to the men guarding her while facing her friends, Sage ordered a club soda and lime. The setup allowed the two female agents to keep an eye on Bruno and his men while she appeared detached.
Soft music was playing at the piano bar, which was a wondrous relief to the mild headache that still intermittently nagged her. Doing a nightclub at this point was completely out of the question. The throbbing music and tight crowds within a South Beach hot spot would have been like driving a railroad spike through her temple. The less chaos the better.
To Bruno and his small security team, who were enjoying beers and Jack Daniel’s at the far side of the room, it appeared that she was just joining up with her old college and teacher girlfriends. Perfect.
Pretending not to notice the bar’s extra set of bouncers, Sage focused on the agents who were her cover for passing information and receiving information. Although a nap had helped, and the spa treatments had gone a long way in soothing her body aches and removing some of the bruising, what she wanted most was eight to ten solid hours of sleep. But that was not to be had.
“How’re you feeling?” The agent posing as Jacqueline pushed a long spill of auburn hair behind her ear and took a sip of her Dewar’s on the rocks.
“I’ll live,” Sage said, smiling, and giving Jacqueline the eye to stay in character.
“Love the outfit,” the agent playing the role of Suzanne said.
“Thanks,” Sage replied, gesturing to the royal blue, plunging neckline, Victoria’s Secret blouse and Angel bra she wore with long costume jewelry chains over tight black jeans and a pair of spike Manolo Blahnik heels. “Jeffrey is going to be so mad that I didn’t get this from Avante Garde. But I’ll make it up to him soon.” She took a sip from her drink when it arrived. “Are they still looking?”
“No. We’re good. Your Vanna White fashion routine convinced them there’s nothing to see, people, just three airhead chicks talking crap about nothing.” Suzanne patted the edges of her frosted blond hair as she lifted her glass of merlot with a wry smile. “I say we have a ladies’ night toast to seal the impression. Shall we?”
The three women lifted their glasses and brought them together with a light clinking sound. From the corner of her eye Sage could see Bruno and his men watching the football game on the soundless bar TV and desperately trying to get whatever bits and pieces of the game they could on their smart phones.
“I think we’re good to go,” Sage announced. “The ladies’ night toast was a lovely touch.”
The three agents laughed.
“So talk to me.” Sage glanced from one agent to the next. “And tell me with a smile, Jackie.”
Jacqueline pasted on a smile and lowered her voice. “Agent Alvarez up in New York confirmed what you’d heard from the big blond this afternoon. Your man is going to be doing the distribution deal down in New Orleans, right before Mardi Gras, so he can maneuver and play off of the chaos and the float trucks coming in and out, but not before he brings his inner circle together there. He’s got to be sure there are no leaks before he tries to move that much weight, otherwise Guzman will be calling for his dick on a silver platter in Colombia.”
Suzanne nodded, and spoke through a strained smile. “Our New York team is going to get that DELTA Force captain into that meeting. DELTA wants to know about the weapons end of the deal; it looks like your man has a hand in that as well.”
Leave it to Salazar to try to get paid on both sides of the transaction. Sage threw her head back and released a hearty feminine chuckle for theatrical effect to keep Bruno’s men none the wiser about their conversation. “Really? Now that’s just rich.”
“Isn’t it though?” Suzanne agreed, glancing at Jacqueline.
“He’s gonna make a profit off the low-cost product, flip it at normal prices, and then will probably get some type of brokerage fee for making the weapons dealer connection.” Sage just shook her head.
“Ex-Soviet dudes out of Canada, same ones who—get this—also on the third pass off from wholesaler, to distributor, to street retailers, help move your man’s weight up and out through part of his upstate New York network,” Jacqueline added, glancing at Suzanne. “That’s why DELTA and Central Intelligence, along with the Feds, are all over this now. It’s international, with links to terrorist cells up in Canada, and is considered a border threat. Captain Davis is the tip of the spear, and he’s convinced his chain of command to let him be the one to get inside—even though CIA usually handles such a role. But I guess the quick turnaround nature of things led to that. Not sure why the dude lobbied so hard for the role.”
“Maybe because he tried to break my jaw and gave me a concussion?” Sage said with a wink, chuckling for Bruno’s crew, but very sobered by what she was hearing.
“This thing is way bigger than we knew, Sage,” Suzanne said. “It was always dangerous—but now it’s ridiculous. Illegal drugs and terrorism have tangled tentacles all over the world. So you watch your back in there.”
Sage nodded and sipped her drink, her mind reflexively returning to Captain Davis. “When’s Alvarez going to position the new man in from DELTA?”
“Don’t know yet. They’re all down in New Orleans as we speak, trying to get a confirmation that the shipment came in and to get a bead on the containers and warehouse locations,” Jacqueline replied.
Sage glanced at Jacqueline’s Dewar’s. “I should have ordered one of those. Let’s just hope our DELTA Force captain doesn’t get all gung ho and screw this up.”
* * *
A list of all of Salazar’s regional holdings scrolled on Captain Davis’s encrypted data screen from the DEA field report. He held the smart device next to Lieutenant Hayes so he could read off the company and subsidiary names while correlating that to all area warehouses listed in the MI database. With a cut-and-paste feed, they waited until two large structures finally lit as a match, and then they relayed that back to the other members of the unit that was waiting at NAS for orders to move out.
Half the team would stake out the warehouse area in readiness for any contraband movement, the other half would use the intel that came in from Central Intelligence to locate the shipping containers with the drugs. Once that was done, they would hold their position, ID how the drugs would be disguised and transported, and follow the product from the docks to the w
arehouses.
His men were to monitor the situation from the ground, make sure no product moved from the warehouses, and to follow Assad and the money. His objective was to get inside, find out when the money-for-weapons handoff would occur, and to then drop the hammer on Assad and the arms dealer, busting up that terror cell.
Lieutenant Hayes shut off his encrypted device and stashed it inside his fatigue leg pocket. Captain Davis did the same. Both soldiers nodded as their eyes met and then dropped down their night-vision goggles.
The docks were eerily quiet and they moved along the shadows with practiced stealth. Within fifteen minutes, they’d identified the Uzbekistani freighter. But gaining access to the ship, checking each of the huge containers, and carefully opening whatever disguising apparatus was being used—and then putting it back in place—could easily take all night.
Davis rubbed the nape of his neck, deciding where to begin. Through logical deduction, they could possibly narrow down the options by looking at the shipping manifest that had been transmitted to them earlier. It would be like searching for a needle in a haystack, trying to find any incoming product shipments that would relate to the types of legitimate products Salazar moved. Institutional canned foods, fabrics for prison uniforms, construction materials, anything related in any way to Salazar’s legitimate operations would be the place to look first.
Uzbekistan was an exporter of building supplies, cement, marble, furniture glue, cellulose, and even saltpeter, not to mention its rich oil deposits and minerals. But oil and precious minerals weren’t on the ship’s manifest. Salazar had several construction firms. Looking for heroin and cocaine bricks inside bags of cement seemed like the most logical place to start.