by Sam Cade
“Hold it for a minute. This ain’t right. Let me make a call,” said Lorenzo. He hit speed dial on his phone. W.C.’s phone rang... right beside Lorenzo’s car window, two feet from his ear. Lorenzo slowly turned his head. Maribel, wearing a mask, held it in her hand for him to see his name as the caller on the screen.
Four men appeared out of nowhere. They surrounded the front end of the Mercedes. Clyde Boland stood at the passenger side window with a pistol twenty inches from Lorenzo’s head. Broyle William was at Bill’s window pointing a twelve-gauge riot gun at him. Luis Aquilla and Javy Quintano stood in front of each headlight, .40 caliber semi-automatics pointed at the windshield.
Bill started crying.
5:30 P.M. LUCKY HENDRICKSON WALKED FROM HIS AIRBNB rental seventy yards south down Church Street until he came to the entrance of the town’s two-story parking garage. He played it smart. He joined a scrum of three couples walking to the event. Lucky walked right past two SWAT officers at Magnolia Avenue. They were as disguised as he was. Neither noticed the other.
He cut off from the couples, passed through the parking garage, entered a short pedestrian alley and emerged onto Black Point Avenue. A bank and a children’s wear boutique were on each side of him.
He scanned the streets. It was crowded and he was dressed like a native. Gray shorts, running shoes, Auburn cap, and a loose Tommy Bahama shirt over a black tee.
A twenty-something couple was next to him playing an acoustic version of “Norwegian Wood” with a guitar and violin. Sounded good. About ten others were standing close, enjoying the groove.
Wild Bill Burnham’s office was directly across the street from them. The front door was open. He spotted candles lit on an outside table stocked with wine and refreshments. A knot of people milled around the table. The scene was repeated up and down the street. Very mellow vibe. Melodies drifted in from bands on other streets.
He spotted Liz. She had stepped away from the Burnham Law Firm’s refreshment table. She was standing at the restaurant next door to Bill’s office speaking to a couple dining al fresco.
Lucas assumed Bill was not in the office. He was supposed to be in his mansion with two armed bodyguards per his orders. Lucas spoke to him via phone last night and informed Bill he was arriving in town tonight with some new information about additional security. A Delta Force man. Also told Bill he didn’t want him downtown in the crowds of First Friday. Too dangerous.
Lucky knew all about the First Friday Art Walk and crafted that into the meet with Montoya. He scrolled his contacts, found Montoya, tapped call.
Jake answered. “Montoya.” He looked to Pike, pointed at the phone, and mouthed “it’s him.”
“Jake, I deeply apologize. I got the earliest available flight I could get out of San Diego today.”
“Not a problem. Glad you made it.”
“I rented a car and drove straight here but had to park three blocks away. I haven’t even checked in yet. I’m sitting down here at Bill’s office in the conference room sipping a nice merlot. The streets are packed, what’s going on?”
“First Friday Art Walk. It’s a busy night. What’s the chance of you meeting me at the police station, out of the hubbub?”
“Not tonight, agent, I’m too whipped. I could hang here a few minutes if you could stop in.”
Jake’s mind raced to devise a plan. He had to react to Lucky’s will. Was it on purpose or chance? He knew the answer. “Uh, yeah, sure I can. I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.”
Jake hung up and called Grissom.
“Yeah, Jake.”
“Knight’s downtown in Burnham’s office. He just called me. Where are you?”
“Randy and I are eating at Arby’s. Maybe a mile out. What’s the plan?”
“I’m gonna meet him, lay out some facts and gauge his reaction. Like we talked about, I’ll let him know Theo Fuller has been grabbed. I need you to alert SWAT, make sure they’re in position. When I spot you and Randy at the clock at Black Point and Colony, I’ll assume we’re good, then I’ll walk to the office. And, then... we’ll see.”
Jake thought, honest to God, there was no way Lucas Knight could really know what’s happening, could he? But if he had an inkling, he’d love the crowds running cover for him.
SWAT spent the last ninety-minutes with twelve men in position. They set up with two men at each end of the block that contained Bill’s office. They also maintained the same positions on the two streets running parallel, Magnolia and De La Mare.
They were dressed casually with loose shirts over slacks and versatile Merrell hiking shoes. Kevlar strapped on beneath their shirts. Handguns hidden on their waist. No helmets, no dark fatigues, no MP 5 submachine guns, no oversized FBI lettering on windbreakers.
Grissom spoke to the SWAT commander. “Need you in position. Target is inside the law office. Montoya is going in to talk to him in a few minutes. All we’re doing is watching. No takedown planned. We could get twenty people killed instantly.”
“Copy.” The SWAT team had earpieces and heard it all. “Take your positions, people. Switek, see if you can get a table at the bistro next to the law office. If you can’t, just mill around. Cooper, need you covering the back door of the law office.” They were pulled from the two most distant intersection locations.
“Switek, copy.”
“Cooper, copy.”
But Lucky wasn’t in Bill’s office. He was cocooned at the very front of a six-deep growing crowd listening to the acoustic combo. He momentarily stepped away from the music to make the call. Twenty minutes later he spotted Montoya walking down the sidewalk headed to Burnham’s. Lucky scanned both ends of the street for seven minutes before making his way away from the band. He didn’t detect anyone on Jake’s tail or watching him. The band was in the middle of “Sundown” by Gordon Lightfoot as he peeled away from the crowd.
Three hipster early fifties women were chatting giddily at the refreshment table in front of Burnham’s. Lucky said, “Excuse me.” Leaned in to pick up two plastic cups of red wine. He was positive he detected the remnants of ganja on them.
Lucky entered the office’s empty waiting room like he worked there. Made his way down the hall to the conference room. The door was open. Montoya was seated at the table with a manila folder next to his cell phone.
“Agent Montoya, I stepped out to grab us both a glass of wine from the fine citizens of Black Point.” Lucky placed both cups on the table. Jake stood and they shared a sturdy handshake. “This is a helluva town. A real comfortable place.”
“Yeah, it’s nice,” said Jake. “It’s really come into its own in the last ten years.” Bullshit on the wine. You’re watching every step I take.
Jake was fit. He knew that. At this moment he was reserved, contained. He’d studied the art of calmness through martial arts for thirty years. He was in a room alone with a man three inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than him. Trim with a health club tone. Clean shaven, close cropped neat hair. Nothing like the menacing hyper-ripped hulks Jake faced in pro ball.
Yet, Jake’s skin began to crawl. Lucky looked like a State Farm agent, but he wasn’t. He was a highly skilled predator, an assassin. No telling how many people he’d killed in battle. Jake had seen video handiwork of Lucky’s work in the states. Hendrickson was brutally deadly without a second thought.
Lucas immediately outmaneuvered Jake. He sat in a chair at the table closest to the door. Jake didn’t want to sit right next to him, so he walked around the table and took a seat directly across from Lucky. There were no windows. Only a single door. And it was on the other side of the table from Jake, behind Lucky.
Music careened into the office from the building’s open front door. “Let’s close this so I can focus on your recent developments.” Lucky closed the conference room door. “Looking forward to meeting Ben Staggers tomorrow. Thanks for bringing him to my attention. I just hope he’ll want to come on board.”
“He’s interested, I can tell you that,�
�� said Jake. “Listen, I appreciate you coming. We’re making headway but I think danger’s coming. I don’t want your men caught off guard. And I don’t want anything to happen to Bill.”
“Roger that. Intel keeps people alive.”
“Mikhail Kuznetsov.” Jake blurted out the name and stared at Lucky’s face as he said it. Watched for any reaction. Any twitch. There was no response, nothing.
Lucky flared out his palms, remaining stone-faced. “Okay. Who’s that?”
“He’s the Russian we think is behind everything.” Jake pulled a photo from the manila envelope, slid it to Lucky. “This is about twelve years ago. Ever see this guy?”
Lucky studied the photo. “Not the best shot. Kind of grainy. But, no, I don’t recognize him.”
“Yeah, the photo is crap. An enlargement from an old group photo.” Jake pulled the original group shot out, slid it to Lucky. Jake watched his Lucky’s eyes closely as he glanced across the six college boys. Theo Fuller stood two people over from Mikhail. A goofy smile crossed his face. Theo was rail thin with shorter hair then. Lucky slid the photos back. Didn’t mention Theo. Jake didn’t bring it up. “Interesting. Don’t recognize the guy.”
“That’s a poker crew from MIT that used to fly out to Vegas on weekends. One of the guys in the picture introduced the suspicion of Kuznetsov. He’s reportedly hiding in Europe. He’s deep into ransomware attacks and bank hacks. Reportedly a true computer genius.”
“No shit. And you think he’s coming after Bill Burnham?”
“He’s already hit Burnham pretty hard. Five million to start.”
“Wow. Bill didn’t share a number with me.” Lucky swiped his hand across his mouth. “That’s strong.”
“Last week Burnham donated $30 million in trailer parks to a charitable trust. He was under pressure to do so. Now they want his mansion. But we can’t figure out one thing. Why Burnham? At this point it seems very personal. I want to show you what Kuznetsov is doing to these lawyers.”
Jake pulled out a stack of color photos from the envelope. Slid three to Lucky. “The Green family in Charleston. A slaughterhouse.” Jake leaned over the table, pointed at the tomahawk next to Green’s wife’s head. “Look at that freaking hatchet. Kuznetsov’s boys sliced Hallette Green’s head off with that thing. That’s some kind of military weapon, we’re told. You ever use anything like that?”
“No, but I could have sure used one in the Middle East.”
Bingo. Denied the weapon.
“You aren’t going to believe this deal.” Jake slid over two pics from Colorado. “Some guy shot the shit out of Peter John Clemmons and his two bodyguards. Headshots from hundreds of yards out. .338 caliber. A sniper. Had to be military training.”
Lucky focused on the photos, nodded. “Fine shooting, right there.”
It was subtle but Jake felt it. Lucky avoided his eyes.
After tossing out a single pic of Draper Sims burning alive and Jack Kimbrell drowned underground in Orlando, Jake leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head. “What’s your thoughts, Lucas. Russian ex-military?”
“I’d definitely lean in that direction. Those guys can be hired for anything if the money’s right. A good dozen of those men have responded to my website. And Kuznetsov would have the money to pay top dollar.”
“But we’ve hit on some better news. Much better.” Jake leaned forward to the table, slid two more photos out of the envelope. Two men in casual attire. He slid them to Lucky. “Ever seen these guys?”
“Nope. Are they in on it?”
“Well, yeah, they are in on it in a certain manner of speaking.” Jake placed his finger on Mike Jeffers. “This guy’s a wildlife officer at Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge in Cambridge, Maryland.” Tapped his pointer finger on the other picture. “John Lozano’s a deputy sheriff in Durango, Colorado.” Jake watched Lucky’s eyes. Stoic. Nothing.
Lucky nodded. “Okay. But, so what?” He flashed open palms again.
“We think they saw the killer. In Maryland, the guy went by the name John Thomas Turner. In Colorado, he went by Jerry Trask. Here, let me show you something.”
If Lucas Knight was concerned, Jake couldn’t feel it. Was he wrong about his first tinge of hope?
Jake pushed a couple of sketches across the table. Some parts color-tinted. In both pictures a man with shades, a cap, and a beard. One pic from farther back. A white van. The other a deep green Jeep with a kayak on top.
“Looks like the same guy. Who is it?” said Lucky.
“Not a hundred percent sure. Not yet.”
Jake was at the crossroads. He thought about it. Should he push it right here in the conference room? Or should he stop right now, watch what Lucas Knight does overnight? He thought about the SWAT placement. Two guys on the corners. Grissom was going to bring a man to the restaurant next door and another to the back door of the legal office.
He figured between himself and the SWAT men they could handle it right now. So, screw it, push on.
“Lucas, I haven’t gotten to the best part yet.” Jake resisted the smugness he felt. Got you, motherfucker.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jake’s heart started to pound. Sweat tickled under his arms. His heels lifted slightly until only the balls of his feet touched the floor. He thought of Woo Chow. Be like water.
Jake was totally convinced of one thing. Within the next few minutes, Lucky Hendrickson was going to bolt out of the door three feet behind him. Jake planned to jump the table and drop him before he made it to the street.
“This morning we arrested Theo Fuller in a local coffee shop.”
“Who?”
“Bill’s stepson. He worked in this office, in the room next to us. He hates Bill. We think he’s moving money into cryptocurrency along with Kuznetsov. Kuznetsov was Theo’s roommate at MIT. They’re both in the group photo I showed you.”
“No way. But, yeah, I met that guy. Seems like a pasty video gamer.”
Lucky’s performance was masterful. Surprised but not alarmed.
“Theo’s computer is headed to Washington right as we speak. The Bureau will have every secret out of it by lunch tomorrow.”
There was no tomorrow. Belinda Brant was inside the computer right now at the hotel in Daphne talking to the financial boys in Washington. So far, they’ve identified $91 million that has gone dark into Monero cryptocurrency. She was about to scour DataCage.
Jake pulled out a couple more photos. Both young women under thirty. One black. One white.
“I mentioned John Thomas Turner in Cambridge, Maryland. He was also in Charleston staying in the Doubletree during the time of the Green murders. These young ladies work at the hotel and said they remember Turner to a T. Said he was Doctor John Turner.” Jake arched his eyebrows. “They’re putting together sketches right now. I’m telling you, Lucas, we’re close.”
Jake wanted to tell Lucky they’ve already identified him from photos. He’d wait just a moment. One more question to test his reaction.
“Got a question for you, Lucas. Remember a fellow named Marvin Arrington? He was a football coach in Fernandina Beach, Florida.”
“Shoot, yeah. I loved that man. Anything happen to him? I heard he moved to take a head coaching job in Georgia, what, maybe twelve years ago?”
“Well, you’re right. He’s a head ball coach in middle Georgia. We spoke to him there. He told us that he bought a Battle Hawk from the One Strike Tactical Company and gave it to you as a present some years back.” Jake leaned into the table. “Exactly like the one used in Charleston.”
What happened next seemed slow at first, so very damn slow. But it wasn’t. It happened in a blip more than a second. Ultra-smooth. Nothing awkward or jerky about it. The draw had been practiced thousands of times.
Lucky held a semiautomatic pistol pointed at Jake’s face.
126
6:30 P.M. WILD BILL WAS STRAPPED FACE DOWN TO A KING-SIZE BED. He was buck-naked. Javy, Luis, and Clyde sat on
kitchen chairs they brought in the room to watch the spectacle.
Javy tried to reason with Bill at first. The hard way or the easy way. Your choice.
Maribel took over. “Tough guy, right?” she said. “Where is Dude?”
“He’s dead. Nobody’s seen him for two years. His whole family’s dead.”
Maribel sniffed, hearing the answer. She spread her lips in a snarl. Pulled a ponytail band from her pocket, pulled her hair back with both hands, slid the band on to keep the hair out of her face. She was going to work.
Her left hand fingered the coarse leather knots tied on the cat of nine tails. A leather covered wooden handle was in her right hand. No instructions needed. Maribel gripped it like a hammer, nodded, and snarled, “Dead. Really?”
The whip struck like a bolt of lightning. A whistle could be heard as the leather sped through the air. Rough-edged leather knots ripped into Bill’s flank. She scraped the whip towards her like Javy taught her. Three eight-inch gashes opened on the skin.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh... noooo...nooooooooo.” Bill’s arms and legs jerked against the ties.
The tails went back over her right shoulder, then shot forward with a blaze of speed across Bill’s mid back. Skin ripped. Blood flowed.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!...noooo...please nooo.” The whole bed was shaking.
“Great technique, baby, arm back, drop the hammer, contact, drag the leather,” said Javy as if he was giving his wife a tennis lesson.
Javy was setting up the picano, a high-voltage low-current torture device, similar to a cattle prod. It had two bronze tips and an insulated handle. Maribel’s father had it from his days as a young soldier in a drug cartel. “Almost finished here, baby. Give him a few more shots for a warm-up.”
Maribel was petite but carried some young muscle. Her mind drifted back to her humiliation of two and a half years ago at the Rusty Anchor. Dude drugged her. He pushed her bra up, grabbed her breasts. She told him no. NO. He carried her to the back room. NO, she told him. Over and over and over, NO. NO. NO.