The Eye of the Tigress

by Paul Coggins

  ***

  Outside Goldberg’s apartment complex, Cash spotted a black limo with tinted windows parked across the street. He picked up his pace to the lot, where his Porsche waited.

  The limo pulled away from the curb and rolled slowly toward the lot. A black Tahoe swung into view from around the corner and trailed the Lincoln by a half-block.

  The tail had picked up a tail, both keeping their distance from each other and from Cash. Like race cars under a caution flag.

  Cash memorized the license plates of both vehicles. His only question was, which one belonged to the feds and which to La Tigra?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The black Tahoe zipped around the limo and screeched to a stop between Cash and his Porsche.

  Faced with a choice of fight or flight, Cash hit upon a third option: freeze. He stood his ground. His heart pumped like mad. Sweat glands gushed. Miraculously he managed not to piss his pants.

  Beaten to the prey, the limo sped away, leaving fewer witnesses to Cash’s fate. Whatever that might be. He still had no clue as to who loomed behind the dark windows of the SUV: the feds or a cartel.

  Both had a nasty habit of snatching folks off the street. Both bought Tahoes by the fleet and stole them by the score. The cartels had branched out into carjacking. The feds had a euphemism for their brand of theft. Called it “asset forfeiture.”

  A ruse by any other name….

  Two goons bailed from the vehicle. A squat Latino and a pale beanpole.

  Cheech and Long.

  They pulled the old coat-flip trick, revealing the pistols on their hips and flashing gold badges too quickly for Cash to catch the fine print.

  “Can I see those badges again?” he said.

  Cheech shook his head. Long lifted Cash’s watch, wallet, and phone.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Not yet,” Cheech said.

  They shoved Cash into the back of the Tahoe and blindfolded him. The loose blindfold left a partial view of the driver’s face but no line of sight to the front seat passenger.

  “Is this really necessary?” He started to point out that he’d already seen their faces but caught himself. It wasn’t good for his health to remind the captors of that.

  “Keep it on.” Cheech had a heavy Hispanic accent. “Or we’ll cuff you.”

  Cash nodded. They say the loss of one sense, like sight, sharpens the others. It sure as hell spiked Cash’s sense of foreboding.

  He tried to keep it together by assuring himself that the street pickup was more mind game than endgame. The badges could be counterfeit, but the cheap suits suggested they were feds, not cartel.

  Into the frying pan but not the fire.

  His panic level flared again. How hard would it be for La Tigra’s soldiers to play dress up? Or in this case, dress down?

  During the short ride, no one spoke. Other than Cash, of course. He rattled off questions, all unanswered. The one most often repeated: “Where are you taking me?”

  The Tahoe stopped, and the goons pulled Cash—still blindfolded—from the SUV. The hot breath of a revving plane swept over him. Rough hands dragged him onto the plane and strapped him into a leather seat.

  “Let me go now, and we’ll forget all about this.” Cash tried to sound more put out than freaked out. Didn’t work.

  An elbow drilled his gut, and he doubled over, far as the seatbelt allowed. As soon as the plane went airborne, he got yanked to his feet and dragged to the back.

  A heavy door closed behind him. All was black and still. No sound other than the pounding of his heart.

  The blindfold came off. He stood in an enclosed space the size of a storage shed. It had the personality of one too. Reinforced steel for security. Spongy padding on the walls for soundproofing. No windows. No pictures or paintings.

  Recessed lighting bleached out the complexions of the two feds seated at a round table for eight, each station with its own keyboard and phone. Cash recognized Attorney General Karen Washington and FBI Director T. Baker Danfield from media overexposure.

  Washington wore a black ball gown. The FBI director, a tux. The bigwigs were either coming from or going to a formal event.

  The two agents who had snatched Cash off the street stood by the door. Their presence gave the Bureau an edge in raw numbers. Made the tally: FBI, three; Main Justice, one; defense bar, one.

  Cash took note of who wasn’t at the table. No DEA. Also no rep from the U.S. Attorney’s Office in Dallas. No local color.

  “Where are you taking me and why?” Cash said.

  “Welcome to our flying SCIF,” said Washington.

  “What’s a skiff?”

  “A sensitive compartmented information facility,” Danfield said. “Basically, a room protected from breach by outside eyes and ears.”

  “Oh, like the cone of silence on Get Smart,” Cash said, “only more expensive and less effective.”

  No one laughed or even smiled. Either not catching the pop culture reference or not finding it funny. Cash couldn’t decide which was more unforgivable.

  “Seriously, where are we going?” Cash said.

  Danfield cleared his throat. “That’s strictly need to know.”

  “Well, I need to know, so I can figure out where venue lies for the kidnapping charge I’m bringing against the lot of you.”

  That brought a collective smile to the room, except for Danfield. He could hold a glare for hours. A grudge, forever.

  “Before you run your mouth,” Danfield said, “better check the fine print of the Patriot Act.”

  “Read the United States Constitution before you grab a law-abiding citizen off the street, force him onto a plane, and hotbox him in the air.” Cash’s voice reached a closing argument crescendo. “I suggest you start with Article Four of the Bill of Rights.”

  Washington couldn’t have looked less concerned. Her hair had been styled by a pro. Dark brown with blonde highlights. Layered and lush. The cut, like the evening dress, definitely not for Cash’s benefit.

  “The sooner you hear us out,” she said, “the sooner we can go our separate ways.”

  Cash took a seat and picked up the phone at his station. The line was dead.

  “I’m listening,” he said. “By the way, which agency do I bill for my lost time at the office?”

  “We can’t offer money as compensation for your time,” the A.G. said, “but you of all people should appreciate the value of pocketing a favor from us.”

  “I’d want any IOU in writing,” Cash said.

  “Why? You don’t trust us?” When Danfield got angry, the southern drawl made a comeback.

  “Exactly as much as you trust me.” Cash had a surefire way of getting under Danfield’s skin. “Like your boss said, let’s get this meeting over with.” He played on the common knowledge that nothing rankled the FBI director more than the suggestion that he had a boss. On earth or in heaven.

  With the meeting heading south fast, Washington picked up a ballpoint pen and clicked it while speaking. “What we’re about to share with you cannot leave this room and definitely cannot be put in writing.” She paused until Cash nodded. “You represent someone who faces the very real prospect of dying behind bars.”

  “Look, if you want to conduct plea bargaining,” Cash said, “you don’t need to impress me with a ride on the agency jet. Just make an offer. I’ll talk it over with my client and get back to you. Save the fuel.”

  The A.G.’s pen hit hyper-click. “This isn’t your typical plea bargain situation,” she said. “The highest levels of government on both sides of the border are silent partners to our negotiations. Whatever we work out has to be approved by Justice, State, Homeland Security, the NSC, and a half-dozen other agencies before word of it reaches the Oval Office.”

  Danfield jumped in. “Even if POTUS were to green light an agreement, that wouldn’t change the official line that he played no role in the negotiations and knew nothing about the deal beyond what was public.”
r />   More rewriting of history in the works.

  “I get that you folks brought me here to conduct double secret negotiations,” Cash said. “What I don’t understand is why you consider Toby Fine such a big fish.”

  The pen fell silent.

  Danfield came out of his seat. “Fine! Who gives a shit about that dirtbag? We’re talking about a deal for La Tigra.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “You might as well throw me off the plane now,” Cash said. “I’ve got a better chance of surviving a fall of thirty thousand feet than of keeping my scalp, if I take your offer to La Tigra.”

  The jet hit a rough patch and nearly bucked Cash from his seat at the table. Attorney General Washington picked up the phone at her station and talked to the pilot. The plane banked left and slowly descended.

  She hung up the phone and turned to Cash. “You’d be bringing La Tigra her one and only shot at survival. She’s bleeding support, in and out of Mexico.”

  “Let me make sure I’ve got the terms down,” Cash said. “La Tigra forfeits a compound with a forty-thousand-square-foot mansion, an eighteen-hole golf course, the sixth largest zoo in the world—”

  FBI Director Danfield cut in, “She can keep her precious white tiger. I’d be happy to arrange for her to share a cage with it.”

  Cash went on. “She also throws in an indoor pool that flows into an outdoor infinity pool, a massive wine cellar, a theatre that seats three hundred, three master chefs, and a private masseuse.” He considered bringing up the fleet of SUVs, jets, and helicopters, but he’d made his point.

  “In return for surrendering everything,” Cash said, “she gets a lifetime lease on a ten-by-twelve-foot cell. No extra charge for the rats and roaches. Of course, what your sales pitch failed to disclose is that in order to have any hope of staying alive, she’d have to rot away in solitary. That means twenty-three hours a day in a box half the size of this room on an express train to crazy town.”

  “Whether La Tigra takes our deal or not,” said Danfield, “she’s already lost the compound, along with all the bells and whistles you ticked off. She just doesn’t know it yet.”

  “So says the United States government,” Cash said, “which doesn’t have the best track record of honest dealing.”

  Danfield’s face turned red. “So says the Mexican government too.”

  The plane leveled off, settling into a smoother ride.

  “You must be talking to the one or two federales not in La Tigra’s pocket.” Cash sounded more confident than he felt, aware that the Mexican police had a bad habit of switching sides on a dime.

  Like their counterparts to the north.

  Washington resumed her annoying tic with the ballpoint pen. “For every government official on La Tigra’s payroll, Los Lobos own two.”

  Instinct kicked in, and Cash jumped to La Tigra’s defense. Occupational hazard of a criminal lawyer to suffer under the delusion that even the damned deserved a champion.

  “A woman doesn’t rise to the top of the most powerful cartel in Mexico and hold onto power for two decades by allowing herself to be outflanked by a ragtag band of butchers.”

  Danfield snorted. “To call Los Lobos a ragtag band is like calling ISIS a chess club. They’re the most lethal cartel in the world, and they control half of Mexico. Their sights are set on Sinaloa, and they won’t stop the slaughter until they have it.”

  “To make matters worse for La Tigra,” Washington said, “the Mexican government can’t afford another bloodbath between cartels. Not while Mexico is negotiating a new trade deal with us and bidding for the 2032 Olympics. The federales have picked a winner, and unfortunately it’s not your client.”

  Cash shook his head. “That makes no sense. Why would the Mexican government go with Los Lobos over La Tigra? Better the devil you know….”

  “The Mexican government isn’t leading the victory parade for Los Lobos, only trying to get in front of it.”

  “Even if all that were true,” Cash said, “what makes you think that La Tigra will be the first cartel chief in history to give up her empire without a fight to the death?”

  The A.G. leaned in. “For one thing, your client belongs to the smarter sex. For another, we have you to sell the deal to her. No one understands better than a lawyer who’s done time himself that not all confinements are created equal.”

  She eased back. “We might be able to make some concessions to your client, while she’s under our tender, loving care. Give her something to look forward to every month.”

  Cash caught the drift. “Not sure monthly stud service will do the trick.”

  “How about weekly?” Washington said.

  “While the way to a man’s heart goes through his pecker,” Cash said, “according to you, women are smarter than that.”

  “Smart or not,” Washington said, “no one wants to believe that her sex life is over.” The clicking stopped. “We can work out the details of her living conditions later. Prison can be very hard, especially on a woman. Or not. As the poet wrote, stone walls do not a prison make; nor iron bars, a cage.”

  “Yeah,” Cash said, “but they’re a pretty good start.” He shook his head. “Color me underwhelmed by your offer. And if I’m not sold, she won’t be either.”

  “Your client has a daughter at NYU.” The A.G. didn’t say more. Didn’t have to.

  “The kid has a private security detail to rival the president’s,” Cash said. “Besides, she has nothing to do with the business.”

  “Neither of which will save her,” Danfield said. “Only we can do that.” He stood and stretched to his full six-four frame. Lanky, lean, and lethal. “I’m tired of dancing around. La Tigra has thirty-six hours to grab the lifeline. After that, Los Lobos and the federales will join forces to hunt down and kill her and her daughter.”

  “Thirty-six hours!” Cash stood and locked eyes with Danfield. “That’s impossible. I have to set up the meeting with La Tigra, kill a day in transit to the compound, go over the deal with her, give her time to consider it, and then travel back to the States. I’ll need at least a week.”

  “You’ve got thirty-six hours,” Danfield said, “minus the minutes you just wasted whining.”

  Washington tugged on Danfield’s sleeve until he sat. “Your transportation has been arranged,” she said. “We’re getting off in Houston. Then our plane will take you to Sinaloa and land on a private strip near La Tigra’s compound. That gives you about thirty-three hours to sell the deal to her, after which the plane will return to Dallas, with or without you.”

  In all the talk about La Tigra, Cash had almost forgotten about his other client. The one facing trial this month. “What about Toby Fine? Where does this leave him?”

  “In limbo for now,” the A.G. said.

  Cash didn’t have to ask where he stood. Stuck in the middle, of course.

  Guilt by association with clients made it old hat for the feds to target him for tax evasion, money laundering, and the like. He lived in the crosshairs. But being squeezed between two governments and two cartels pushed the risk level off the charts.

  La Tigra wasn’t alone in needing a lifeline.

  “Fine is the least of your worries,” Danfield said, “and that weasel is four steps ahead of you and La Tigra. He’s already reaching out to Los Lobos, and he’ll offer up your scalps to save his own.”

  It was news to Cash that Fine had made overtures to Los Lobos. No surprise, however, that he’d sacrifice his mother to save his own skin.

  Cash had two final questions. “Do you have a sealed indictment against La Tigra?”

  He expected no answer and got none, so he didn’t waste his breath asking the follow-up.

  Do you have a sealed indictment on me?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As soon as the FBI’s G-jet taxied to a stop, a SWAT team stormed the landing strip and boarded the plane. Cash tried to tally up the troops on the takedown crew. Twice he made it to thirteen before losing c
ount. Too many moving targets in identical uniforms.

  The soldiers wore black from their boots to riot helmets. Tinted face shields were down, and weapons drawn. FN Five-SeveNs in one hand and steel-capped batons in the other. They looked like the bad guys in a Star Wars flick.

  Dragged from the plane, Cash and the pilot wilted in the triple-digit heat of dusk. The night had yet to offer any balm from the sun’s toll.

  A Boeing 747-430 on the runway overshadowed the G-jet. La Tigra’s plane was painted orange with black stripes, with the name emblazoned along the body: The Flying Tigress.

  The troops split up. The pilot forced one way. Cash, the other.

  Cash gave the pilot a parting look that said, don’t dare leave without me. The pilot’s blank expression made no promises.

  A ten-minute hike brought Cash to the theatre in La Tigra’s mansion. Took his eyes a minute or so to adjust to the dark, but only a few lines of dialogue to nail the neo-noir classic on the screen:

  Matty (to Ned): You’re not too smart, are you? I like that in a man.

  Ned: What else do you like? Lazy, ugly, horny. I got ’em all.

  Matty: You don’t look lazy.

  Two goons ushered Cash to the seat next to La Tigra and left. A sea of empty seats surrounded the couple.

  “So you’re a fan of Body Heat,” Cash said. “That gives us something in common.”

  Her eyes stayed on the screen as she spoke. “You seem surprised by my taste in films.” A hawk nose and high cheekbones dominated her profile. No need for ancestry.com to figure out her roots.

  “I thought you might try to intimidate me with a private showing of Scarface.”

  “I suspect that a film about a woman outsmarting the men around her terrifies you far more than Tony Montana and his little friend.”

  Copy that.

  “Speaking of little friends,” she said, “I have warehouses of weapons, including missiles that could have downed your plane from two thousand kilometers away.”