by Sam Cade
People stood, ready to clear.
“Oh, one more thing. Hendrickson’s a pilot. Take a ride to the airport, familiarize yourself with how to get there. Take 98 five miles south of Black Point. Turn left at the light at 32. Airport is right there on the right. He’s supposed to fly in today.”
122
CONCERN ATE AT JAKE’S GUT. It was 3:57 p.m. and no word from Lucas Knight. Jake called the Black Point airport twice after lunch. Nothing. He called the Hampton Inn asking to be connected to Knight’s room. Knight did have a room reserved, they told him. But he hadn’t arrived. Jake headed to Barnes and Noble, four miles away. He hoped browsing the magazines would give his mind a break.
Jake’s cell went off at 4:38. Saw the name, tossed Hemmings Motor News back on the rack. Lucas Knight.
“Montoya.”
“Agent Montoya, I deeply apologize. Something came up. I’ve been running hard to nail a big security contract in London. On overseas calls all day. I apologize. I’m still in California but I will be in Black Point tomorrow, guaranteed.”
“Yeah, I understand, Lucas. Tomorrow will be fine. Check in with me when you hit town.” Jake fought the urge to press...call me with flight times, airlines. What about your plane? Where are you staying? Left that stuff alone.
“Oh, I spoke to Ben Staggers. He sounds like a superstar. I’m covering his ticket and he’s flying in on Saturday. I can tell you right now, if that guy wants a job with Knight Force, he’s got one.”
“Sounds good, Lucas. We can all grab dinner tomorrow night. I know a great spot.”
“I’ll catch you tomorrow, Jake. I’ll call you when I arrive.”
LUCKY HENDRICKSON WASN’T IN CALIFORNIA. He wasn’t setting up a contract in London. He wasn’t going to call for commercial flight times.
He was sitting on a bench under a clock tower at the main intersection in downtown Black Point. Black Point Avenue at Colony Street. Ninety-minutes ago he landed his rugged Cessna Caravan on Ed Wall’s bumpy grass airstrip three miles east of downtown, tucked in behind a conglomeration of self-storage units and fenced-in-storage for boats and RVs.
He walked 550 yards to an urgent care medical clinic located at the intersection in front of Walmart. Hertz employees were there with his rental, just as promised. He tipped the two guys a twenty each, drove into downtown Black Point to his Airbnb rental on Church Street, 100 yards from the back door of the Hampton Inn. It was a simple studio above a detached two-car garage on the property of a half-million-dollar home.
After stowing his gear, Lucky changed, strolled downtown for thirty minutes, staying close to other walkers when he could, seeking a vibe. SEALS were trained to feel the unseen. Detecting nothing, he sat on the bench by the clocktower, admired the flowers on all four corners of the intersection, and dialed Jake Montoya.
The eyes of six separate FBI SWAT members glanced over Lucky as he meandered through the commercial district of the charming village. They noticed nothing. He was a guy in stone-washed jeans, a crimson Alabama jersey with number thirteen in white letters. Quarterback Tua Tagovailoa. A BAMA cap was snuggled down to his eyebrows, and a new pair of Oakley gray-tinted sunglasses covered his eyes.
Lucky was dressed like fifty-thousand other people in the state of Alabama at the very same moment.
123
Black Point
First Friday, October 4, 2019
4:15 A.M. MARCIA ALLEN SPED SOUTHBOUND ALONG a car-free Colony Street fifteen miles-an-hour above the speed limit. Reaching the shop, she braked hard, cut right, and stopped dead against the curb of the Coffee Loft. Soft orange light from two sodium vapor lamps glowed across the empty asphalt parking lot. The morning still. Quiet. Shop closed.
She drove a 1994 silver Honda Accord, 326,000 miles on the clock. An impound vehicle purchased for $300 bucks from the Mobile Police Department. Mark Benton pulled his dark government Ford in right on her tail. He stopped. Allen jumped in.
Benton pointed the black sedan north on Colony, laid on the gas. The drop took seventeen seconds.
8:50 A.M. THEO FULLER PARKED HIS GREEN SUBARU in the empty parking lot of the closed Ben’s Barbecue restaurant across the street from the coffee shop. The eastern sun was sharp. No humidity in the air. A perfect Gulf coast morning in the best month of the year. He crossed Colony Street walking to the coffee shop, strutted right by the driver’s door of the silver Accord, stepped up on the concrete sidewalk running across the front of the shop.
Two men sat at a metal outside table that held two coffees, one open computer, and some colorful flyers. Theo spotted real estate listings. He did not spot the Sig .40 caliber semi-automatics or bullet resistant vests hidden by their sports coats.
Inside the shop, the line moved fast. The commuter traffic was beginning to die. Theo performed his routine. Large coffee. Two muffins. Took his seat with his back against the wall. Booting up his computer he spotted the poor sap working on his accounting degree. Benton, his nose buried in his textbook, coffee cup in hand, saw Theo, too, in his peripheral vision.
Theo thought about it, his plan. Sure, it sounded crazy in the beginning, preposterous, actually. Now it was ninety-five percent complete. The hard part was over. One hundred and sixteen million dollars as a total haul. He thought about Montoya and snorted out a laugh in the coffee shop. What a fuckin’ rube. He glanced around. Nobody heard him.
Theo found himself with an ethical dilemma, which he found amusing in light of the carnage he instigated. Sixteen million dollars came in on top of the $100 million dollar goal. Eighty percent of the total to Lucky? He made his decision right there. No Way! Screw Lucky. He’d slice the $16 mil off the top and apply it to his stash. Cause I’m the fuckin’ MAN!
Belinda Brant walked in at 9:30 wearing tights with an abstract blue color scheme under an orange long-sleeve top. Theo’s eyes drifted over her feminine ankles as she walked by. She bought a banana smoothie, took a seat near the front window facing the parking lot on the opposite side from the Accord. She flipped open her yoga book.
Marcia Allen breezed into the shop at 9:55. She wore a heavy gray sweatshirt that said Black Point Volleyball over blue jeans and running shoes. She had the small Glock 42 in a holster at her mid-back. She strolled casually to the counter with her athletic swagger. “I’ll take a small iced dark mocha espresso, please.” Placed a five on the counter. Dropped the change in a tip jar.
She took four steps away from the counter, stopped, took a sip of espresso. Her eyes glanced towards the front door. She caught Belinda’s eye. Belinda dipped her chin almost imperceptibly. Benton peered over the top of his textbook. He saw Belinda nod. His eyes cut towards Marcia. He flicked a nod. All three saw Theo typing on his laptop.
Marcia’s cell had a one-word prewritten text on the screen. GO! She glanced at the screen, punched send.
Jake sat in the driver’s seat of the rugged diesel tow truck the Bureau rented from Tony’s Towing. He was parked unnoticed on a side street 150 feet away. The truck rumbled with heavy vibration while it idled. Jake’s cell vibrated. GO!
He keyed his hand-held police radio and spoke an order. “Block the road.”
Jake eased the heavy steel monster in gear and pulled up to the stop sign at Colony Street. He looked north and south. Perfect. Blue lights flashed from two Black Point PD SUVs blocking the street sixty yards down in both directions.
He pulled onto Colony, clutched the twelve-ton bruiser into second, drove ninety feet, and lightly braked. He steered a hard left into the coffee shop parking lot. He was lined up directly behind the Honda when he bumped the gas.
The rear end of the Accord obliterated in a loud crash of steel and glass against the truck’s industrial steel push bumper.
Belinda jumped and screamed as loud as she could. Two caffeinated college girls did the same.
Theo Fuller jerked, pushed his Dell onto the couch and blasted to his feet to see the startling commotion.
It was lightning quick. Benton and Allen crashed into Th
eo like linebackers. He hit the floor hard, landing on his chest and hands. He twisted his head down and backwards, spotting his computer. It was seven feet away. Wide open.
Belinda raced to the computer, spotted Theo looking her in the eye, pain on his face. She grabbed it and carefully speed-walked it to the back of the shop. She carried a Dell charger and three thumb drives in her hoodie pocket. She pulled out the charger, plugged it into the wall and the computer. Couldn’t let the battery die.
The two SWAT officers rushed in the building, said “FBI! Don’t move. Everybody put your phones down.” They jerked Theo’s hands behind him and cranked steel cuffs around his wrists. Each man grabbed an arm and walked him forcefully out of the building straight to a vehicle idling at the street. He was pushed into the backseat of the blacked-out Tahoe. The big SWAT agents crushed into both sides of Theo in the back seat and slammed their doors closed.
Grissom was at the wheel. Garrison, sitting shotgun, looked over the seat at Theo, said, “Good morning, berkeleyblue2.” He said to Grissom. “Hit it. Let’s fingerprint this fucker.”
The whole grab took less than two minutes.
Jake met eyes with Theo as he was walking from the building. He said nothing, walked into the shop, glanced around at the patrons, and saw nothing but dazed looks. “It’s okay, folks. It’s over.” He knew that one or more of these patrons had likely zipped out a short video shot with their phone, ready to go viral.
He walked deeper into the shop, spotted Belinda with her fingers on the computer keys, eyes fixed on the screen, and a thumb drive stuffed into a port.
“Anything?”
She gave him the side eye. Then smiled. “I count over twenty-four accounts open and minimized, plus DataCage.”
“What’s DataCage?”
“It’s the premier cloud storage site. Known for the tightest encryption on the planet. And it’s logged on. Thank God.” She winked.
“So, are we good?”
Belinda, radiating suburban sunshine in her happy athleisure outfit, pointed her hand to Theo’s computer in the shape of a pistol.
“We’ve got this weasel motherfucker nailed to the wall.”
124
FRIDAY. 10:15 A.M. Thank God it’s Friday. That was the thought rolling around Waddell Skipworth’s brain. He sat on a stool slapping a thick glossy coat of white paint onto Florence Harrison’s elaborate fence fronting her estate. Her deceased husband and father made a mint in the commercial heating and air business which afforded her a $2.4 million dollar waterfront estate next door to Wild Bill Burnham in Point Clear.
Waddell heard it first. The rattle of equipment on a trailer as the truck slowed to pull into Wild Bill’s driveway. He glanced up at the same time his left hand shot up for a wave. That’s how they did it in Alabama. Didn’t have to know the folks to be cordial. It was a clean white van with a large colorful logo on the side that said Wild Green Yonder. The trailer rattled with mowers, weed whackers, industrial plant shears, shovels, gas cans and what not. And if anybody was vigilant, they might notice a Texas license plate.
Waddell tensed when he saw the face twelve feet from where he sat. The tall pale white man wearing a Wild Green Yonder cap in the passenger seat. Waddell jerked his head down immediately and kept painting. The Jack and Coke cleared his mind a couple nights ago after seeing the black F-250 at Los Tacos. His brain retraced backwards two and a half years. Paleface drove Dude Codger’s Camry off the lot of the Rusty Anchor at 1:30 in the morning.
And ain’t nobody seen Dude since then.
The van stopped on the Bahamian rock circular drive at the front door of Bill’s estate. Clyde Boland hopped down from the driver’s seat wearing the company uniform, dark green twill pants with a vivid green tee shirt with the company logo. He wore a cap and shades. Javy Quintano and Luis Aquilla emerged from the van dressed similarly. They joined Clyde at the front of the van.
Broyle William went to the trailer and started unloading equipment. Maribel Quintano fired up a zero-turn mower and rode it to the backyard. Broyle pulled three yanks on a weed whacker and it finally hit, smoke spewing out. The smell of gas and oil filled the air. He gassed it a few times making a lot of racket, then found some weeds to rip apart.
Clyde, Luis, and Javy went to the front door. They’d been watching Wild Bill’s every move for the last four days. They saw the two big men with him. Clyde pinged the doorbell. Waited half a minute, blipped it again. They expected the landscaping equipment alone to wake up the sleeping guard. After another minute, Clyde began banging on the door in a three-knock sequence.
They heard somebody yell, “Coming.”
“Get ready, here he is.” Clyde felt footfalls arriving at the door. He faced the door with his left shoulder. His right hand held a taser that was hidden behind his right thigh.
W.C. Powell opened the door. A big dude. Six-four, two hundred forty pounds. Barefoot, white tee shirt bulging with muscle, sweatpants.
“I’m sleeping guys. What do you need?”
Pffft. The taser dart lodged into the skin in his left chest delivering 50,000 volts of electricity. Powell took one step backwards and fell to the rug.
The three men jumped Powell on the ground. Clyde and Luis rolled him on his belly. Javy sat across his calves locking down the legs. Flex cuffs zipped tight around wrists and ankles. Duct tape wrapped in circles around his head covering his mouth.
They grabbed Powell’s legs and dragged him into a bedroom. Closed the door.
Not one word uttered during the takedown.
“Put on your gloves,” instructed Clyde. Nine years in a state penitentiary made Clyde an honorary professor of criminality.
11:50. The van pulled out of Wild Bill’s driveway headed north towards Black Point. One occupant. Maribel was headed to buy sandwiches at Firehouse Subs and tea and Cokes at Winn Dixie. The driver’s side faced Waddell. He twisted his head. Barely a glance. All he needed. A young Mexican woman.
He knew her.
125
Friday Afternoon
4:45 P.M. JAKE SAT IN PIKE TATUM’S OFFICE. He’d been on edge since three p.m., an arbitrary time. He thought he would have heard from Lucas Knight by then. It would be dark in ninety minutes.
“Something hinky about this, Pike. But one piece of good news. Theo Fuller has never been printed. Found out an hour ago. So I think we’ve got the right berkeleyblue2.” Jake had been discussing the anonymous tip that came in about email username and the individual that had no prints on file.
“Every little bit helps. Man, I’d like to know who called that in,” said Pike. His cell phone rang. “Yeah, Frank, how’s it looking?”
“Chief, I think it’s going to be one of our busiest First Fridays. The streets are filling up fast. Great temperature, perfect night. We’re keeping our eyes peeled, too.”
“Perfect, thanks.” Pike slid his phone on the desk. “Maybe the best thing, Jake, him not showing. These Art Walk deals are growing every month. We could have four-five thousand folks rambling on the streets in a little while. I mean free wine and hor d’oerves, live music, so why not? Tonight’s gonna look like a small-town Hallmark movie.”
Jake nodded, a little lost in thought. “Know what I think? Lucas saw something on Theo’s arrest. Spooked him. But, honestly,” Jake creased his face, “I don’t think the press has it unless they caught a viral video. Maybe one of those college kids fired some footage to a TV station. Damn, if he’d only come in midday.” He shook his head, disgusted, grabbed his phone, called Ben Staggers in Washington. Quick answer. “Ben, are you still on tap to fly down tomorrow?”
“Far as I know. Leaving Dulles at 10:40 for Pensacola. Why?”
“Lucas Knight was supposed to call me today when he hit town. Haven’t heard from him. Look, call me if anything changes, will you?”
“Absolutely. But right now, I’m planning on fresh fried shrimp tomorrow night.”
5:15 P.M. WILD BILL AND LORENZO WALKED OUT OF BILL’S OFFICE into the back
alley. Lorenzo led the way, eyes wary. Headed 100 feet to De La Mare Avenue.
“Dadgum, Lorenzo. Why don’t we stay? First Fridays are a great time. And look at this weather. A helluva fine October night.”
“Not a chance. Mr. Knight said to get you home. Ain’t you scared, man? With all the shit that’s gone down?”
“Thank God I met Lucas Knight. That’s all I gotta say. You and W.C can handle these pricks. Lucas is bringing in a former Delta guy tomorrow for an interview. So, basically, Lorenzo, hell, no, I’m not scared.”
Bill drove his dark Mercedes sedan from De La Mare to Church Street. Turned left, hit the stop sign at Fels, turned right. Not quite a mile as Fels sloped downwards to Great Bay Road.
At the stop sign, Bill looked across the bluff and said, “Look at that would you?” The bay skyline was running a trailer for an epic sunset approaching. “Never get tired of it.”
The drive took a leisurely five minutes to reach the S-curve at the Magnolia Hotel. Two more minutes to reach the driveway to his estate. Bill pointed to the left side of the road while he cut the steering wheel right into his driveway. “I ever tell you about the sumbitch that lives there?”
“Nope.”
“A hot-damn redneck named Johnny Earl Shedd. Remind me tonight. I think he’s the guy that blew up my Rolls.”
The wheels crunched over stone in the 100-yard driveway. The Mercedes headlights landed on the landscaper’s van and the trailer-load of equipment. “What the hell is this? It’s Friday night. I’m about to throw steaks on the grill,” said Bill. The car came to a stop.