“I won’t say anything, Marty. What you just experienced would have sent the calmest person in the world over the edge. But you held it together. Way to go, man.”
I could bullshit with the best of them.
“I held it together. Yeah,” he said, then flipped his position instantly. “I just know Sims will find out, man, then I’m dead in the water. He’ll never give me the chance to run anything.”
Unsure if I wanted to go down this path, I tried a diversion. “Who you pulling for in the Super Bowl?”
He clipped the brakes, the van lurching forward, stopping inches from a red VW Bug.
“Shit!” I called out.
Marty flipped his head to me, his eyes still bugging out.
“Let’s try to take it down a notch. We’ve got to be pretty close, right?” I asked.
“I haven’t had an incident in eighteen months, but I swear to you, I’m dying right now.”
I think he was saying he had a drinking problem. It wasn’t hard to imagine a sudden, stressful event waking up old demons.
“You’re safe in here, Marty. I’m not carrying a flask. No booze of any kind. This will pass, and Sims will still make you head of security.”
“Booze? You got it all wrong. I crave for the heads of little animals, squirrels, raccoons, ferrets. My most recent obsession was with little cats.”
I was sharing a ride with one sick bastard. Urging myself to show no expression, my face must have twisted into a corkscrew.
“What? You think I’m a sick bastard, right?”
Right, Marty. I wasn’t sure how his anxiety attack brought back memories of maiming harmless animals. I swatted a hand to the window. “Whatever. We all have our own little fetish. I gotta tell you, when I was younger, I once tied a cricket to a firecracker, then lit it on the doorstep of my neighbor’s house, rang the doorbell, and ran away. Mrs. Wheeler got a face full of cricket guts.”
I laughed, and Marty gave me a high-five.
Tension dialed back to a more normal level, and we took Woodall Rodgers east, cutting across the heart of the big city, the Arts District to our left. We drove through the quarter-mile tunnel, a portion of Klyde Warren Park perched on top—an architectural phenomenon. Marty never noticed the Meyerson Symphony Center or the Perot Museum of Nature and Science, nor did he pay attention to the glowing ball of lights atop Reunion Tower. Marty lived in his own world, and the rest of us just visited…when he was there at all.
Banking left, we curled south onto I-35, moving at a snail’s pace, which didn’t bother me. Ten minutes later, we intersected with I-30. Marty flashed his blinker to head west.
“We going to Fort Worth?
“No, man. Just on the border of Grand Prairie. There in five minutes.”
He was right. Surprisingly, we moved from the heavy traffic of an interstate to a road barren of all traffic, nothing but older warehouses. We turned left down a side street, a freezing mist illuminated by the van’s headlights. Ice could be forming on the overpasses about now—that was the cop in me talking.
Marty steered the U-Haul through a chain-link fence, moving past an unmanned guard booth. Thick, dark woods lined the backside of the property, opening into a U-shaped, one-story warehouse. Two SUVs were parked next to an eighteen-wheeler that had been backed into a docking station. I’d yet to see a single person.
As Marty brought the van to a stop about thirty feet in front of the vehicles, two sets of SUV headlights lit up the parking lot, blinding my eyes. Marty jumped out, held up an arm, squinted, and I followed suit, the frozen mist coating my jacket and head.
“Walk this way, slowly. Hands in the air.”
Sims, his voice phlegmy, like he’d been gurgling rocks.
Marty shuffled toward the beams, not a confident stride. I matched him, edging his way. Unsure exactly how this was supposed to work, my mind fought doubt—of this drug-money-person deal process, especially in Sciafini. What would stop him from taking me out, Sims out, all of us? David. He was absolute gold to Sciafini; that much was obvious.
Slowly, silhouettes took shape, tall and lean, short and stocky, and then there was Felix, his spiked hair all too noticeable even in these conditions, standing off by himself.
“Hands on the hood of the Hummer, spread ’em. You should know the routine, Booker.”
Just the sound of Sims uttering my name infused venom into my bloodstream. Lashing out now, though, would not end well. I had to maintain my composure with all of these moving parts.
I did as he said, then waited for one of his guys to frisk me. Taking a peek, I found the cowboy who’d been with Sims twice before, standing to his right. Hands stuffed in his pockets, his face studying the situation, but not stressed. He seemed to be more of a thinker and a dealmaker, not a fighter.
A hand slid up my thigh and back down the other side, checking every pocket, hidden or otherwise, for a weapon. I was clean. The Sig Sauer package had bypassed Tulsa, sent straight to Dallas.
Sims barked instructions for his men to complete the drug-money swap. Feet shuffled on slick concrete, moving behind the Hummer, unloading suitcase after suitcase. I think I counted ten, possibly eleven. The chain gang returned with three duffel bags, tan this time. Each was opened, inspected. I think I saw wads of cash. I guess Sciafini decided to put real money into this deal. Either he saw this as a true investment in his business, or Sims and his pals were thumbing counterfeit bills. Alisa hadn’t mentioned that in her research, but opportunities pop up all the time, I’d imagined, especially if morality and decency weren’t factors.
“I like the way this guy does business,” Sims said to those standing around while glaring my direction. “Half up front, then the rest will be wired to us once my man Marty here returns the truck to Tulsa. And I guess David too.”
I looked around, didn’t see David.
Sims patted my shoulder. “I can’t tell you how it excites me when I do business with people who’ve got your back. People you can trust like brothers.” He spit in my face, and it took all my willpower to not snap my elbow into his schnoz. I wanted to scrub my cheek on the ice-cold concrete just to remove his grime off my skin. Instead, I stretched my favorite, ripped sweatshirt to wipe it off.
Suddenly, he hunched down, set his feet, then threw a right cross into my solar plexus, catching me off guard. I dropped to one knee, trying to catch my breath.
“Sometimes people don’t catch on very quickly. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Glancing to my left, Marty’s head nodded quickly, too quickly if he thought he was being one of the boys. Sims paused, then said, “Hey, look, on the roof.”
All heads turned to look skyward as I stood up, and I followed the trend. At the last second, a sparkle flashed to my left, Sims’ huge-ass ring. Feeling like I’d been hit with the blunt force of a sledgehammer, my cheekbone and corner of my eye screamed with pain. I stumbled, fell back to a knee, my hand there to keep my balance. Touching the shiner, I could see blood.
Sims was the king of chickenshit sucker punches. But this one had power I had not felt before, as if his strength had doubled since our original incident a few months back. Curling my fist, I lunged out of my stance with my arm cocked. As I readied to whip my arm forward, powerful arms grabbed me, threw me to the ground.
“It takes three, huh? That’s fair.” I said this from a position of weakness, leaning on an elbow, working my shoulder joint to see if it was still intact.
Sims motioned to his cronies and they picked me up in a hurry. Sims walked under my chin.
“Ruff-ruff.”
He fucking barked like a dog, just to see me jump. Everyone laughed, and he soaked it up, turning to his lackeys, laughing along with them. I just wanted to grab David, jump back in the truck with the animal killer, and roll back to Tulsa.
Like he was shot out of cannon, Sims twirled around and hit me with two quick jabs to my ribs, already sore from the first punch. He held my head in his bare hand and punched me in the face, five, six,
seven times. I tried moving, but I was pinned down. Blood spewed onto the concrete. Three more shots to the ribs. I grunted, calling out, “You fucking asshole!”
He chuckled, strolled to the SUV, and motioned his hand. Out walked David, his hands zip-tied in front, his face swollen in about eight places, one eye almost completely shut.
Sims worked the stage like he was at the Apollo Theatre—minus all the black folks, of course. This might have been the pinnacle moment of his career, maybe his life, or at least the life he’d created.
“I believe it’s never too late to learn from our mistakes. After all, we’re human, and if we can’t learn from our mistakes, how do we grow from them? You like that? I’m in touch with my feminine side, you see?”
Very Freudian of him.
He weaved in and around his team, seven other guys, which included the three attached to my body, although they now had a looser hold, allowing me to mop up my own blood with my sweatshirt.
Suddenly, two sedans with cherry pickers on top rolled up to a quick stop, both black Dodge Chargers, unmarked. Two men from each car exited, all four in civvies.
Sims never lost a beat. “So, the question is, how can we learn from our mistakes and move forward? That’s the direction my team is moving—forward.”
He smiled at Felix, put an arm around him, smacked his shoulder like he was his in-law, then he continued his evening stroll, his steamy breath curling into the misty sky.
Darting my eyes both directions, I noticed the four guys had remained in pairs, two flanking each side of the SUVs. I assumed they were detectives, but not here to save our asses.
Moving toward David, Sims pulled out gloves and slid them on. “David, you’ve learned your lesson, right?”
David’s body tensed, and he simply nodded, apparently bracing for another Sims attack.
“Nice. You see, we can reform people. The system works.”
He padded around me. Leather shifted, my shoulders grew rigid, and I prepared for the worst.
But I hadn’t.
A gun blasted from just behind me, and I almost swallowed my tongue. Everyone shuddered, except Felix. He dropped straight back like a statue, a bullet wound in the middle of his chest.
“Some people just can’t be reformed. They show a pattern of opening their traps, and it’s not possible to trust them.”
I think a couple of the guys coughed or gagged. Felix had been pivotal in helping us figure out the identity of the lunatic bomber that had frightened the city like nothing before. I knew he had shit going in on his life, and he seemed troubled at times, but he’d still helped me out. He knew I almost lost my daughter, and it had struck a chord with him. Now he was dead.
Wheezing out breaths through cracked ribs and a battered face, I felt rage build inside, but I couldn’t do shit about it.
“I’ll be reading the Morning News app from my iPad tomorrow, and it will be one of the craziest stories I ever read. Booker, here, found out about a drug deal at a southwest Dallas warehouse. He wanted in on the deal, and he confronted Felix, who was already facing similar charges in Dallas County. Felix fought back, but Booker took out his stolen gun and shot him dead.”
A gloved hand shoved a handgun in my right hand. My prints were now on the murder weapon.
Sims strolled away, his back to me. “Thankfully, through some great investigative work, our police brethren from Grand Prairie hit the scene to witness the shooting. They put Booker T. Adams in custody, who will now face, among other charges, Murder One.”
Sims opened his arms, grinning ear to mangled ear, one foot on its heel, like he’d just finished his one-act play.
“Fuck. You.” I raised the gun, my arms shaking slightly, and pulled the trigger.
Click. It didn’t fire. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was disappointed as hell. Seconds later, the so-called detectives took me into custody, put me in handcuffs. Sims wheeled by, smacked my cheek at the same point where his ring had popped it.
“This is ludicrous. No one will believe your story. I was here. I’ll tell them the truth.”
“We have four eye witnesses, all decorated cops,” he said, staring down his new hired help. “Plus your fingerprints are on the stolen weapon.”
I lowered my head, realizing I had overestimated Sciafini, or he’d anticipated me being taken down by Sims, while David was handed over. A nice, neat package deal.
Sims added one more tidbit. “Oh yeah. Booker tried to escape, and the detectives had to chase him down. A scuffle occurred, and Booker was injured.”
He noticed me shake my head in disgust.
Sims smiled again, like he’d just won the big prize. “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
Not two seconds later, a strange voice over a bullhorn.
“This is the FBI. Drop your weapons! Now! You’re under arrest.”
In the blink of an eye, a swarm of cars rolled in, screeching to a halt, and agents flooded the abandoned warehouse, guns drawn. A helicopter appeared overhead, shining a spotlight on us, and another couple of dozen swooped in from the forest behind us.
For a moment, my body and mind relaxed, as all hands went into the air, some men dropping to their knees. The pistol was still stuck in my hand, and I tossed it to the ground.
Noticing Felix lying motionless twenty feet away, a pool of crimson at his side, I turned, looking for Sims. I found him with his arms stretched to the sky, a mean, defiant look still painted on his ugly mug. Agents moved all around, two grabbing Sims’ arm. He looked at me and said, “Always a snitch, nigger.”
One stride, then thrusting my leg upward, I snapped my boot at his crotch. “Fuck you.”
Sims fell to the ground, his head a big ball of red.
An agent touched my side. “Booker Adams?”
I flipped around, finding a man whose clothes hung off him, his belt flapping against his thin frame, holding a FBI badge. “Agent Bobby Guidry. You’re safe now. You and David.”
Sciafini, somehow, had come through. But I had no idea how.
17
“And here’s your coffee and your change. Can I get you anything else, napkins, hot sauce, ketchup?”
“I think I’m good. Thanks,” I said, glancing left at two sacks in the passenger seat.
Man wasn’t meant to live off coffee alone, so I’d learned…again. Shifting into second gear, I pulled out of the Golden Arches drive-through in Allen, a North Dallas suburb, knowing I’d broken one of my cardinal sins: if thou wants to remain in good shape, thou can’t eat at McDonald’s.
After the night I’d endured—hell, the last couple days—I decided to grant myself a temporary pardon from my ban on McDonald’s.
An intense sun bounced off the hood of my Saab, adding a degree of pain to my head injury from Boston two days earlier, and my battered face, mostly from squinting. Veering onto US-75 South, I leaned over and rummaged through my glove box searching for sunglasses.
“Where are those damn things?” A night of nonstop FBI interviews had left me with a short fuse.
I arched my neck to ensure I stayed between the dotted white lines, the car barely moving fast enough to warrant being in fourth gear. Three sets of horns blared zooming by me. I started tossing everything out of the glove box, until one item remained. Not sunglasses.
“Huh.” I’d finally found the tub of Tums. “Might need a couple of those in an hour.”
Not allowing my mind to second-guess my decision, I pulled out a breakfast burrito, squirted hot sauce on top, and chewed off a sizable bite, checking my rearview mirror.
“Just go around, numbnut.” A Chrysler 300, navy blue, drove at the same reduced speed, about fifty miles an hour. I ignored him and a couple of other cars that passed, folks rolling down their windows and flipping me off like I’d just shot someone.
Last night.
Taking in another tired breath, I sipped McDonald’s coffee, my sixth cup, third brand, since Guidry and team rushed the frigid parking lot. I’d never been so
happy to see that many FBI personnel in one location. Too bad they couldn’t have arrived five minutes earlier, before Sims had murdered Felix.
I had spent the next several hours huddled in an FBI minivan, sharing my side of the story while a paramedic cleaned my wounds. David was going through a similar process in a minivan parked twenty feet away. Finally, Guidry, who had more energy than ten of me, tapped my shoulder, and I joined him in the parking lot, technicians and agents still working the crime scene, now doused in spotlights.
“Just wanted to let you know the real scoop,” Guidry said in a hushed tone, buttoning his jacket that had at least an extra six inches of give in it. “This isn’t for all ears, even in that minivan.”
He had my attention, and not just because of his thick Cajun accent. I nodded, blowing warm air into my hands.
“Vincent Sciafini, a person often associated with organized crime in Chicago, gave us a last-second tip about this drug deal, Sims’ operation, the kidnapping, everything.”
I assumed everything fell just short of everything, starting with the first domino in this trail of questionable characters and screwball decisions—Sciafini forcing David to sell his soul to pay back his Vegas debt. Well, maybe not the first one, but one that led me into this mess.
“Care to share why he gave you the tip?” My eyes pointed downward about six or seven inches.
He cleared his throat. “Sciafini and the FBI have been dancing for years. Tried to bring him up on charges, but nothing stuck. So, I’m guessing this is his way of maintaining a civil relationship, one that allows both sides to claim victory.”
I thanked Special Agent Guidry for confiding in me, then asked how our paths didn’t cross during the time when Dallas nearly imploded from a series of bombs. “I was on a special assignment in San Francisco. And…” He looked away, a sheepish grin covering his face. “After the case concluded, my girlfriend and I spent a week up in wine country. Beautiful.”
I nodded, a smile cracking my face.
“Oh, I meant the wine country. But my girlfriend, she’s pretty hot as well. Not that she wants me to be telling everyone that. She’s an FBI agent too. Kylie Irving. We kind of got that long-distance thing working.”
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 44