by Dyal Bailey
The sheriff looked at her, surprised. “None whatsoever. But I’ll ask Cotton.”
She sighed. “Has her partner been able to find Mimi’s iPad, or that Peloso DNA hair sample?”
“Not yet. He contacted Gen-Bio-Lab and not only did Mimi never make it there on the day she disappeared, but apparently their lab never promised to analyze the hair sample in the first place. Tomorrow, Cotton is going to question the three janitors from the warehouses that gave Mimi most of her leads.”
The judge leaned back in his chair. “Ladies, is there any reason for us to believe that Mimi might have known her murderer?”
“A sprinkle-cookie dancing in leotards with a pink satin mask? Mimi ran with a pretty strange crowd, but not that strange.” Wanda-Jean shook her head.
Mallory concurred. “Poor Mimi. Just a random target I guess. This is tragic.”
The sheriff’s eyes regarded the elegant wrapping paper and now-empty box sitting on the judge’s desks. “Yeah, but that was one beautiful job he did on her toes.”
The DA nodded. “He sure was a nut case, though. Who else, but a kook, would pick an ugly, pink hat like that to toss on her head?”
The judge cleared his throat. “I believe it was a bonnet.”
Mallory shrugged. “Whatever it was, it didn't do her justice. She was one healthy girl; I've never seen so much blood.”
The sheriff tilted towards her. “They say she used to jog five or six miles a day.”
The DA examined her own waist. “You know, my doctor is always trying to get me to start exercising.”
“Mine too. Judge, thank you for sitting in on this with us. Did you want me to take this video or get a copy from Jim-Bob?”
“Go ahead and get one from Jim-Bob. I want to watch it again.”
The two women turned to look at the judge.
The judge’s face colored and he shifted in his chair. “What I mean is, there is something familiar about the music he was playing. I was planning to write y’all a summary of my thoughts though, so I think I better go through the entire video again.”
The DA shrugged and the two women filed from the office.
…
Antonio leaned forward and pounded his head against his antique desk. He couldn’t believe this was happening. If he hadn’t just made a sizable donation toward the repair of St. Mary the Holy Blessed Immaculate Virgin Chapel, he would swear that Providence was against him.
How could his sources have been so terribly wrong? His men in Bogotá told him quite specifically that Carlitos would be busy at his second cousin Guillermo’s wedding until tomorrow. By then, his men would have had time to prepare an appropriate welcoming committee.
What could he do? He had no time to run the situation through Werther. If he rashly jumped in and attempted to handle it himself, his cover would be fully blown, and all would be as good as lost. If he sent in his men unprepared, without Werther’s carefully prescribed instructions, the chances were that the cartel would get the better of them.
Finally, he made a gut decision, grabbed his phone, and dialed.
“Günter, are you still here in Georgia?” His closed his eyes. “Thank God.” Picking up his rosary beads, he gave them a quick kiss. “Because a Lear jet with Carlitos and his Colombian cousins just touched down in Augusta.” He rolled his eyes. “Of course I want them all dead!”
…
The sun was beginning to set when Micah dropped Rafaela off at her rental car. She got out and he followed.
“Micah,” she began, pulling on her ear.
“Don’t talk. I’m here and you’re here. For now, that’ll have to be enough.” He tugged her into the circle of his arms and released all his passion in a crushing kiss that reverberated deep down into their souls, sucking the air from their lungs. Unable to control herself any longer she pushed him away, desperately trying to suppress her wanton need. The look on her face failed to conceal how much she wanted him. Unsatisfied with their distance, he drew her back in and took a moment just to breathe in her scent, and he heard her stomach growl. “When’s the last time you ate something?”
She laughed. “I don’t know. Maybe last night around seven?”
He raised his eyebrow. “Woman, you need a keeper!” He studied her face. “How about I treat you to some shrimp or—I can whisk you away to my cabin and throw a sandwich together.”
She peered at him, a smile curving her kiss-swollen lips. “Actually, some shrimp sounds good. Why don’t we head to the oyster bar?” She got in her car and saw the doubtful look on his face. “No tricks. I promise, I’ll meet you there.”
Fifteen minutes later, she sat in her car at a distance, watching the entrance to Rhinehart’s Oyster Bar. She spotted Micah emerging from his sports car and hopped out. As she turned, she came face-to-face with two tall Hispanic men with slicked back hair wearing garish charcoal blue suits.
“Señora Ramos, I have a message for you from my cousin Carlitos.”
She saw that one of them was holding a tranquilizer gun. “Not you guys. Not again.”
With no hesitation, she spun her tiny body and side-kicked him in the chest, shoving him into the bushes. Pain seared into her still healing wounds. She wrapped her arms around herself, to ease the overwhelming ache, just as the second Colombian headed her way and punched her in the stomach. She took the blow hard, toppling over, gasping for air as she groaned in gut wrenching agony.
As the other man aimed his tranquilizer pistol at her, a large hand came from nowhere, smacked the man in the nose, and sprayed him in the face with mace. The Colombian waved the gun in the air with one hand and rubbed his eyes with the other. Micah struck his knuckles, and the gun dropped to the ground. Staggering, the man started taking swipes into the empty air.
“Micah?” she gasped.
He ran to her side as she struggled to get up. He put his large arms around her to help her up, and a look of sheer agony crossed her face as he unknowingly squeezed her wounds.
Micah looked at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I had a little mishap in New Orleans, but—” she stopped midsentence as the still half-blind Colombian was again steadying the tranquilizer gun on her. Micah left-hooked him, knocking him to the ground. The man groaned, and Rafaela, her nostrils flaring, kicked him in the head.
Micah’s eyebrow rose. “Was that necessary?”
“I think so.” She bent down. Checking both men’s eyes, she placed medicinal patches with precision onto her attackers’ necks.
“Are you all right?” He ran his hand across her back.
She nodded and pulled out her phone. After sending a text, she gestured to him. “Help me get these guys into the bushes.”
He nodded and pulled them away. “What if they wake up?”
“They won’t. I gave them a sedative to keep them down for a while.” She glanced at the time on her cell phone.
He observed her. “What now?”
She saw there was already a response to her text. “Let’s go in and get something to eat. A cleanup crew will pick them up any minute, and I’d rather you not be here when they do.” She rubbed the back of her neck.
He regarded the two men. “They look…comfortable.”
They were stacked with one Colombian on the ground face up, his head peeping between the other Colombian’s crotch. She smirked and walked with Micah into the restaurant.
Moments later, Günter pulled up in a large white van. With Agnes Baltsa’s liquid voice booming Habanera out of his speakers, Günter stepped out, dressed in full Toreador regalia. Locating the Colombians in the bushes, he smiled. Effortlessly, he picked up and plopped the first Colombian inside the back of his van and began to pick up the second when the man started to regain consciousness. He hurried and tossed the man over his shoulder.
The man started mumbling, “Que pasa?”
Günter smiled. “Relax. Carlitos is waiting for you.” He laid him in the van and touched his thumbs together, creating a camera
view, and contemplated. Running his fingers through the man’s hair, he paused, turning his head from side-to-side.
“Hmm. With your profile, you may just be my Carmen.” He closed the back of the van. The Columbian smiled and nodded back to sleep.
…
Rafaela and Micah took a seat at one of the picnic tables. He tried to pull her in beside him, but she slithered away and took the seat straight across. After they placed their order, he grinned and took her hands into his, skating his fingertips along the palms of her hands.
When the waitress brought their food and bounced away, his face turned serious.
“I can’t believe guys like that are still coming after you. Does this kind of thing happen often?” He stared at her with growing concern.
“How often do you brush your teeth?” She lifted one shoulder as if to imply, no biggie.
He shook his head. “Seriously, Rafaela, how do you live with that crap, weirdoes constantly trying to kidnap you?”
She stiffened. “I stay on my guard.” She took a bite of her shrimp, turning away from his overwhelming gaze.
“With everyone? Even me?”
Swallowing, she turned and eyed him, unblinkingly. “Especially with you.”
“Now, now. That wasn’t nice.” He playfully slapped her hand.
“I wasn’t trying to be,” she stated morosely. Her face grew solemn.
“So you want to be bad, is that it?” He wiggled his eyebrows. She smiled, in spite of herself.
“Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t we head over to my place? You can try to be bad and I can try to be very, very good.” He took her hands back, giving them a gentle squeeze.
She looked at him, tempted, but shook her head. “I need to get some sleep.”
“We can do that too.” His voice was warm and caressing.
She glanced across the way and saw a large van coming and going. “I think they’re done. Wait here. I want to check and see what’s what.” She slid out to exit.
“What about tonight?” He moved to the edge of the booth.
She took a step away. “Maybe another time. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Crossing the parking lot, she checked to make sure the Colombians were picked up and headed toward her rental car. She had second thoughts about sleeping alone, paused, and turned to look back in the direction of the entrance to the oyster bar and Micah.
As she to a step toward going back inside, she felt a sting on her neck. Her hand moved upward, touching what felt like a dart. Less than a second later, everything fell into a dark, inky black.
…
Antonio, kicked back in the mesh lounge chair on the deck of his houseboat, gazed at the stars. He smiled like someone who knew that all in the world was well. Having just received a text from Günter that he had the Colombians well in hand, he toasted the heavens. After a sip of San Pellegrino, he opened his well-worn copy of Ann Patchett’s novel Bel Canto.
Thumbing through the pages, he paused where Cesar, the young terrorist, was overwhelmed with the emptiness of the morning without the Prima Donna’s voice filling the room—and started singing.
Antonio sighed to himself. What a moment. What a writer!
Just as he flipped to the next page, the phone inside his pocket started vibrating, signaling there was a message from one of his men. He was tempted to ignore it. After taking another glance at both the captives and captors’ responses to Cesar’s song, he casually skimmed the message. Choking out a gasp, he made a call.
“What time did they take her?” He grabbed a pen and paper. “Did you follow the aircraft vapor condensation trail?” Jotting notes, he exhaled. “Okay, go ahead and ready the men. Yes, full combat.” Shoving his note into his shirt pocket, he went to his desk where he had stashed the print out of Werther’s instructions for scenario J-63. Still listening, he scrambled to find his keys, and dashed toward his truck. “Have the chopper pick me up in the open field next to the fairgrounds.”
He hopped behind the wheel of his old clunker, hit the gas, and raced away. Once he was well on the road, a thought occurred to him, and he made a call.
“Puja—” he snapped. “Of course it’s me. Listen, you’ve been waiting to meet me in person. Well, now is your chance. Whether I can trust you or not is neither here nor there. If you prove yourself untrustworthy, you’ll be dead. Now take heed. I need you to help me with someone very pivotal, but you’re going to have to act now.” He gave him directions to the pickup point and clicked off his cell.
He pondered. Yes, it was unfortunate that he was being forced to show part of his hand so soon. However, he and his algorithm had anticipated this possibility, and never one to waste an opportunity, Werther had long ago calculated a way to maneuver this kind of blunder into a position of power. So, with his algorithm’s contingency formula in mind, Antonio knew it was time to secure another man inside the CIA. Someone a great deal closer to Rafaela.
…
Rafaela struggled with the straps binding her hands behind her back. She shook her head and groaned. Moving around, she found she was in a coffin-like box surrounded by whistling vibrating walls on every side.
This was the kind of trap Bailey had warned her about. One created to block the tracking mechanism the CIA had placed just under her ear. Straining her bindings, she lifted her hands up and felt the tiny scar where they had inserted the now useless device. She snarled, baring her teeth. “No!” She started banging her head against the side of the humming sarcophagus. Then something occurred to her and she smiled.
She continued slamming her head at an angle until blood started spurting out. She went to smash her head again only to feel her neck wrench forward as the lid above her lifted open, her eyes blinded by the light. Jerking her face up, she saw a Saudi in a head cloth blinking down at her in horror. She must have been a sight. The blood hot and sticky all over her face. Trying to take advantage of his surprise, she wrenched her body upward, spotting a group of Arabic men, frozen in what appeared to be a game of cards. In an instant, they were screaming words in their strange, hawking twang and the lid was brought down against her arms in a painful crash.
Blinking in the darkness, she thought about what she’d seen. It was clear they were in a freight plane, probably heading towards a terrorist camp in the desert. Her heart sank. What if they lock me up and I never see Micah again? Soon thoughts of Micah and only Micah started spinning inside her head.
Two hours passed, and she felt, rather than heard, that the plane was landing and someone was again opening the box. She fluttered her eyes and saw that it was Dickinson checking to see if she was breathing.
After examining her, he fully took in all that had happened. “Dear God!” he muttered.
One of his men responded. “Yeah, you better start praying, before Mr. Bailey sees this.”
She struggled to sit up on her own and the two men rushed to her side, helping lift her from the coffin. “It's not as bad as it looks; I did it myself.”
“Oh, you look peachy keen. We’re talking about the mess outside.” Dickinson motioned at another CIA man who was outside videoing the evidence of the slaughter.
Loosening her bindings, he used a medicinal wipe to clean off her face and head. He shouted to one of his men to assist while he helped her exit the cargo carrier. The scene outside was a total massacre. There were Arab bodies sprawled everywhere.
“You certainly believe in doing a thorough job,” she stated, impressed.
“That's just the point. We didn't,” he retorted.
She gave him an incredulous stare. “What do you mean?”
“When we showed up—there it all was.” He pointed to the scene of bloody carnage and shrugged his shoulders.
She gawked at the bullet-riddled bodies and shook her head. “Who would go through all this, but leave me behind?”
“That's just what Mr. Bailey is going to ask.” He crossed his arms and watched as Rafaela took off in a helicopter. His lips were pressed together
in a slight grimace as he turned and plodded towards a second chopper. He took his seat, and soon they were in the air.
After ten minutes flying time, a sound came from the hold. On alert, he turned and Dr. Raja Puja appeared.
“What the—?!” Dickinson jumped up and headed for the cockpit. The pilot stared straight ahead while another unknown man aimed an assault rifle at him. He motioned for Dickinson to go sit by Puja and he obeyed. Once he was strapped to his seat, Puja puffed out his chest and asked, “So—did you like our handiwork?”
He looked around, his leg muscles tightening. “Who are you?”
“We have very similar jobs, you and I. We both want to keep Dr. Ramos safe and we both need to keep her as productive as possible.” He chuckled, displaying a wide grin.
“What do you want from me?” Dickinson’s posture remained stiff.
“A little cooperation and information. I think you’ll find the offer my employer has for you is one you can’t mentally or physically refuse.” He rushed his words and squeezed his hands at his side.
Dickinson’s eyes were cold. “I’m not interested.”
“Not yet, but you will be very, very soon.” He pulled out a large sinister syringe, Dickinson saw it, and attempted to move away. It was futile. The needle plunged deep into his neck.
…
Antonio was wearied beyond words.
He’d had an arduous night and day, plus an even more tiring flight back. Still wearing desert camouflage, he made it back to his houseboat. He yearned to curl up in his bed, but new information on the investigation in Augusta had found its way to him. He needed to act fast.
Slipping his hands into his pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.
“Günter, I have three janitors that I need sanitized.” With what little energy he had left in him, he hopped, almost stumbling, onto the deck of his houseboat. “Well, whether you like my pun or not, they’ve been wagging their tongues to the police, and I need them out of the picture before you head home.” He unlocked, opened, and relocked the many doors that led to his soft featherbed, but was forced to pause. “No, I didn't realize the Met’s Wagner Festival begins tomorrow.” Unzipping his combat jumpsuit, he let it fall to the floor. He took a sniff of his undershirt and shed himself of the silk undergarments as well. Wearing nothing but his birthday suit, he leaned his very hairy naked form against the wall. He took a deep, exhausted breath.