by J. B. Turner
“Talk to me, Reg,” she said. “How do we clean up this fucking mess?”
“I don’t know if you or your guys have any idea what you’re dealing with.”
“Excuse me, I know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
Thomson sighed. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. But this is not fucking good. And I don’t think there are any good solutions to this. You need to let your superiors know. This is out of control. And you can quote me on that.”
Hudson saw a light flashing on her desk phone.
“What do you want my guys to do?” Thomson said. “Your call.”
“Look, keep tracking Stone, and we’ll make the call on what needs to be done when it’s time.”
“And when will it be time? Let’s get serious. We have a GPS fix on the car Stone stole. He’s heading north, we think toward Miami, and so is the woman. So, that’s something to work with. I think we should move a team into position in Miami to await instructions. How does that sound?”
“Do it.” Hudson ended the call and picked up the desk phone. “Catherine speaking.”
“I just got your message.” It was William Black.
“It’s a full-on nightmare scenario, sir. And it’s not over. Not by a long shot.”
“Catherine, in five minutes I’m meeting with the director and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. And let me tell you, it’s not going to be pleasant. So, I need answers. And I need to know the containment strategy.”
Hudson glanced up at the screens. One was tuned to Fox News, which was now trumpeting breaking news in the Florida Keys. On the other screen, a police forensics team, visible on the dashcam, was photographing the sides and front of the SUV. “Shit, Fox is already on this.”
“What?”
“Stone killed everyone in the vehicle. Kevin de Boer, all of them. Close range.”
“Fuck.”
“Sir, the time for containment has come and gone. Nathan Stone and the actress are both driving north on US 1, separately. Current GPS indicates Stone is two miles south of Key Largo. Next stop, Miami. You can count on it.”
“He’s clearly communicating with the actress. He’s obviously given her a clean phone, untraceable.”
Hudson sighed. “Possibly. Who knows? The fact of the matter is he will be heading to Miami.”
“Why Miami?” Black asked.
“Good place to disappear. Bus, train, and plane hubs. And boats too. Nightmare. And we are failing to contain this.”
“You are failing to contain this.”
His tone sent a chill down her spine. “Sir, I’m taking full responsibility for this. Thomson’s team is now, finally, on it,” Hudson said.
“So was de Boer’s.”
Hudson sighed. “My take on this, sir, for what it’s worth?”
“Please.”
“I’d like Thomson and his guys to just take Stone out as soon as they can. On the street. Close range. In cold blood. And to hell with the consequences.”
“Let’s do it.”
Fifty-Two
Stone dumped the car in a nondescript alley in South Beach, pulled on the backpack, and walked a circuitous route to the Deuce on Fourteenth Street. He was back in the bar where it had all begun. And it was like nothing had changed.
The Stooges were blasting out of the jukebox. A few stoners were loafing around the pool table.
Stone ordered a bottle of Heineken and a Bloody Mary. He knocked back the cold beer. It felt good. Actually, it felt fantastic. The adrenaline was still running through his body.
He stood and reflected on what had happened since he had first encountered Beatrice here. Neither of them could have foreseen what would transpire. He wondered whether she would turn up. Then again, he wondered if she wouldn’t just head straight to the cops.
The Miami Beach police were only a few blocks away.
Stone didn’t have to wait too long. Twenty minutes after midnight she strolled in, wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarette. She stopped beside him, picked up the Bloody Mary, and knocked it back in one.
Stone ordered another round. “How you holding up?” he said.
Beatrice stared straight ahead. “Is it finished?”
Stone shrugged. “I sure as hell hope so.”
She leaned in close for a moment. “You didn’t think I’d turn up, did you?”
“I had my doubts.”
The bartender handed over the beer and the Bloody Mary.
Stone clinked her glass with the bottle. “Got to hand it to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re far tougher than I imagined. I misjudged you.”
Beatrice shrugged. “Story of my life. Besides, I’m not buying that compliment. I was a terrified nutjob most of the time.”
“You had your moments, that’s true.”
Beatrice smiled and shook her head. She looked over at the guys playing pool. “I’m terrified we’re being watched.”
“Relax.”
“Easier said than done.”
Stone gulped some more cold beer.
“Did that actually happen? Seriously? I’m trying to make sense of it. Shit, and this is where it all began. I’m having flashbacks.”
Stone nodded.
“I mean, did that actually goddamn happen?”
“Keep it down,” Stone said. He turned to the bartender and slid a napkin with a hundred-dollar bill under it across the bar. “That’s for you. But I need a favor.”
“Not a problem, man.”
Beatrice said, “What’s going on?”
Stone gave her a sideways glance. “Gimme a minute.” He leaned in to speak to the bartender. “You smoke?”
“Yeah. Cigarettes, not weed.”
“Same as me. Do you go out the back for a cigarette break?”
“Why do you need to know that?”
“Just humor me.”
“Sure, that’s exactly where I go.”
“I need a favor. In return for that crisp hundred-dollar bill.”
“What kind of favor?”
“Get a coffee and a cigarette and go out there.”
“Now?” The guy frowned. “Why?”
“So you can tell me if there’s anyone else in or around the alley. I mean any dudes hanging around, guys in cars, on motorcycles, whatever.”
The bartender shrugged. “Why would you want to know that?”
“I’m a curious person.”
“You’re weird, my friend.”
“Humor me.”
“And if there is someone out there? What do you want me to do?”
“Take your time. Have your smoke and coffee. Then come back and tell me what you see.”
The bartender was grinning. “Are you a cop? Is that it?”
“Like I said, I’m just curious.”
“Okay, man, I’m in.” The bartender slid the money into his pocket and disappeared out back.
Beatrice stared at Stone. “What the hell was all that about?”
“Just trying to get the lay of the land.”
“You think we have a problem, don’t you?”
“Just keep it down and keep it together.”
When the bartender returned, he was flushed.
“You okay?” Stone said.
“Yeah . . .”
“So what’s the story outside? Anything?”
The bartender nodded and leaned in close. “Two white guys in a car.”
Stone processed the information. “Is that right? What kind of car?”
“A Suburban. Black. You know those guys?”
“What else?”
“One was talking into a cell phone.”
“Passenger or driver?”
“Passenger.”
Stone slid another hundred-dollar bill to the guy.
The bartender took a peek at the money. “Are you kidding me?”
“You did good. Thanks.”
The bartender shrugged. “So what’s that all about? Are they frien
ds of yours? Is this a game you guys are playing?”
“It’s fine. Just curious. Just keep it to yourself.”
The bartender shook his head and smiled. “Whatever floats your boat, man.” He drifted away from them to serve another customer farther down the horseshoe-shaped bar.
Stone whispered to Beatrice, “I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
He glanced over his shoulder toward the pool table, then handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “I’d like to see what you’ve got.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, I’d like to see your acting abilities.”
“Why?”
“I want you to go over to those guys shooting pool and ask to borrow their cell phone for a minute. Say your cell battery died. And give them the twenty. That’s for their trouble.”
“And why would I want to say that?”
“Just do what I say.”
“There’s something wrong, isn’t there?”
“Just do it.”
Beatrice looked at him long and hard. “Shit. I thought this was over.”
“We might have some company.”
“Where? Who?”
“Out back.”
“Fuck.”
“So I need you to do what I asked you.”
Beatrice didn’t hesitate. She slid off her stool, walked up to the guys shooting pool, and flung her arm around one of them.
Stone watched as she flirted with them before one handed over his cell in return for the twenty-dollar bill.
Beatrice returned to her stool and knocked back her drink. “What now?”
“I want you to call 911.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“I don’t like this.”
“It is what it is.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they weren’t there when we arrived ten minutes ago. Suspicious.”
“You think they tracked us down? I thought it was done.”
“Make the call.”
“And what do I say?”
“Go into the women’s bathroom, make sure there’s no one there, and really give it everything you’ve got. I want you to sound frightened. And I want you to say there are guys with guns and drugs in a black Suburban behind the Deuce bar, Fourteenth and Collins Court. Got it?”
Beatrice nodded. “911. You sure?”
“Positive. Then hand the cell phone back to those guys.”
Beatrice disappeared to the bathroom for a few minutes, handed back the cell phone, and sat down again. “Done. What now?”
Stone bought two more bottles of Heineken. He handed her one and clinked the bottle. “Well played.”
She took a couple of large gulps and put down the bottle. It wasn’t long before they both heard the blare of sirens in the distance.
Stone handed her the backpack. “I want you to leave the bar and get on a bus.”
“Why? I just got here.”
“Do it!”
“What about you? What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to deal with something. But I want you to get to safety.”
“What’s the backpack for?”
“Don’t open it.”
“Why?”
“Promise?”
Beatrice nodded. “Yeah, if that’s what you want. I thought all this shit was over.”
“It will be soon.”
“So, I catch a bus? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll call you on the cell phone I gave you within the hour. I want you to be on a bus headed to New York.”
“I don’t live in New York.”
“Just do it.”
“Where do I get a goddamn bus?”
“Downtown bus terminal. Catch a cab a block from here, outside the Flamingo Apartments.”
“Okay. Then catch a Greyhound bus headed to New York?”
Stone nodded.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t worry about me. Just get on a bus. And I will call you in an hour. Keep a close hold of the backpack.”
“I’m scared.”
“Do this and you’re almost home.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. Take care, Beatrice.”
Beatrice smiled as she lingered for a moment. Then she got up and left the bar.
Stone finished his beer and ordered another. A minute later red lights seeped into the dark dive bar.
Stone signaled the bartender. “Can you do me another favor?”
“Sure thing.”
Stone pointed at the bag behind the bar. “What’s in that?”
“You crazy? Why do you want to know that, man?”
“Just curious.”
“Gym gear. Workout clothes. Member of the Flamingo Park running club. I usually head on over after work.”
“Five hundred dollars okay?”
“You kidding me? For a fucking gym bag?”
Stone nodded.
The barman grinned. “You’re crazy. Are you a drug dealer or something? None of this makes any sense.”
Stone slid the money to the bartender. “Tell me about it.”
Fifty-Three
Catherine Hudson paced the secure office in Doral watching night-vision footage from the drone high up in the sky and adjusting her Bluetooth headset. The drone was currently above a black Suburban in an alley behind a bar. Miami Beach police were cordoning off the area.
Hudson’s headset buzzed.
“Catherine?” It was Thomson.
“Reg, talk to me!”
“Two of my operatives are in custody.”
“How did this happen? Or maybe I should rephrase that: How does this keep happening?”
“You tell me, Catherine. This is your baby, apparently.”
“So you’re blaming me?”
“Don’t be so fucking touchy.”
Hudson closed her eyes.
“One of my guys is still in the game. As soon as Stone leaves the bar, he’s dead.”
Hudson didn’t say anything. She’d watched all her plans turn to dust before her eyes. They had one more roll of the dice.
“Do you copy that?”
“I copy that.”
“We need to take him down now. We have to kill the fucker.”
“You’re sure your operative can handle it?”
“He’s on a motorbike, line of sight to the bar entrance. We’ve already ID’d Stone. He’s in the bar. Drone footage showed the woman leaving. We need to act. And quick.”
Hudson was quiet as she contemplated this next move. It was so far from what the Commission should have been all about.
“The actress can be dealt with another day,” Thomson said impatiently. “Stone is the number one target. I say we go into the bar and kill him point-blank.”
Hudson began to pace the room. “How far away is the biker?”
“You need to green-light this, don’t you?”
“Yup. Not in the bar. Outside, on the street. I want him to die like a dog.”
Fifty-Four
Stone headed into the back office at the Deuce.
The bartender was waiting for him and shut the door. He handed over the Adidas gym bag.
Stone gave him a wad of notes.
The guy flicked through it. “Five hundred bucks! You’ve given me a thousand bucks in total! Are you kidding me?!”
Stone took the bag. “Thanks.”
“Did you rob a bank or something?”
“Something like that.” He glanced at the TV monitors. The security cameras showed cops combing the area around the black Suburban.
The bartender opened the door. “Two minutes, and you need to be out of here.”
“Got it.”
Stone closed the door and locked it from the inside. He unzipped the Adidas bag and pulled out the guy’s gym gear. He stripped off his clothes. Then he pulled on the
guy’s white T-shirt, white shorts, matching trainers. Marled gray sweatshirt and sweatpants on top. He popped on some sunglasses.
He stuffed his backpack inside the Adidas bag and slung it across his body. He put the Glock in the elastic waistband of the sweatpants and pulled down the sweatshirt. Stone glanced in the mirror. He could be any guy headed to or from a South Beach gym. He adjusted the bag to conceal the gun down the back of his pants.
He took a deep breath.
Time to play, Nathan.
Stone unlocked the door and nodded at the bartender as he headed out of the bar. He turned right and headed down Fourteenth Street and past the cops, who had strung crime-scene tape across the alley. His senses were primed. He knew exactly what he was looking for.
He took a right on Ocean Drive and strode past a couple of drunken tourists arguing about baseball. Then he turned right up Thirteenth Street. His mind was thinking ahead. How it was all going to play out.
He walked for about half a mile in the heart of South Beach, past art deco hotels, apartments, art galleries, tattoo parlors, nail salons, and bars. He turned right on Euclid Avenue and walked a block until Fourteenth Street. Then he turned right and crossed over onto other side of the road. Then he crossed over at Washington.
Farther down the street, Stone saw a guy on a high-powered bike. Black leather, Ducati logos. He figured the biker was about a block down from the Deuce.
Stone could see that the guy had a perfect line of sight on everyone leaving or entering the bar. He must’ve seen Stone walking out of the Deuce. But since his clothes were different, he hadn’t thought anything of it. At least Stone hoped that was the case.
Suddenly he felt as if a switch had been flipped in his brain. He was in the zone. Hyperaware of his surroundings. He began to walk down the street, coming up behind the biker. He felt crazier than he had for a while. Adrenaline coursing through his veins. His focus was the man on the bike. The guy was speaking into a yellow-and-black walkie-talkie.
Stone was getting closer. Fifty yards or so. Nearer and nearer.
He watched as the man put down the walkie-talkie. Perfect. He approached, unseen by the guy. He walked up to the biker and took aim. Then shot him in the neck. The guy collapsed to the ground, the bike crashing on top of him.
Screaming filled the humid air.
Stone stood over the biker and drilled two shots through the man’s visor and into his gaping mouth. Pedestrians fled in all directions.