by Mark Romang
Sebastian Boudreaux had aged quite a bit since the last time she’d seen him. But then so had she. In a flash a red dot from his laser-sighted Browning aligned on her forehead.
“Let’s see if mine works,” Boudreaux said haughtily. “I’d wager it does.”
Annie said nothing in response; just stared in disbelief. Beelzebub had a gun, and he intended to use it.
She closed her eyes.
Chapter 21
Veracruz, Mexico
The bedside phone rang incessantly. Ring after ring shattered the darkness. 52-year-old Carlos Zaplata bolted upright in his canopy bed. Jaci, the naked adolescent girl who had been sleeping on top of him, tumbled off to one side and stared back at him with vacant eyes.
Zaplata wasn’t accustomed to receiving calls at such an early hour, and it took him a few seconds to pinpoint the ringing phone. He typically paid his people to screen his calls and rank their importance on a one to ten scale. He only answered calls with a seven ranking or higher. And on most nights, especially when entertained by his sex slaves, turned off the phone’s ringer. But tonight a hinging multi-million dollar drug deal altered his routine.
Zaplata picked up the receiver. “Yes?” he grunted. He yawned as he listened to the voice on the other end blather about a just-received e-mail from his U.S. connection in Louisiana. “Stop, you fool!” Zaplata roared. “Sensitive matters cannot be handled over the phone. Inform the board members to meet me in the wine cellar at once. And bring a hardcopy of the e-mail,” he added brusquely before hanging up.
Zaplata threw off sheets and a comforter and stood up. He looked back at the doe-eyed girl. “I’m sorry, my love. Important business demands my attention. You will be contacted when you’re services are again required.” Jaci visited him more than the other girls. She fulfilled his cravings in unique ways and with far more intensity than the other girls. Perhaps her enthusiasm stemmed from gratitude. He provided a house with floors and electricity for her family of 10 siblings, as well as a generous monthly stipend. Free heroin also had a way of encouraging her wanton behavior, thought Zaplata with a smile.
Picking up his discarded silk boxers off the floor, the drug lord put them on and draped a bathrobe around his lean chestnut shoulders. He hurried out his spacious bedroom suite, saying nothing to the pair of brawny men standing watch outside his door, each outfitted with chambered Uzis and lapel mikes.
Zaplata strode down a hallway festooned with original Raphael paintings. The gilded frames encasing the masterpieces shimmered on the burgundy stucco. At the end of the hallway he stepped into an antique elevator and descended three floors into a chilly basement.
The expansive basement housed his vintage wines, mostly cabernets, but a few rare whites that could fetch thousands of dollars if sold to a private collector.
The wine racks were situated so a large open space remained in the middle of the cellar. A Brazilian rosewood conference table gleamed under the lights in this space. Office chairs made from alligator leather surrounded the impressive table.
Zaplata sat down at the table in his customary chair. From this spot he lorded over his kingdom, all forty-billion dollars. And within these thirty-six-inch thick walls he formulated distribution strategies with the other board members, which generally consisted of his brothers, but on occasion included bribed government officials and corrupt federales officers. Zaplata’s business conquests came at a steep price, however. Assassins stalked him, and rival drug cartels continually circled his enterprise like sharks on a blood scent. And then there were the nettlesome DEA agents lurking undercover in the shadows. He never saw them, but knew they were out there, patiently trying to infiltrate his organization so they could ambush him when he least expected it.
For this very reason, two-dozen heavily armed bodyguards safeguarded his estate. Six gunmen stood at the ready inside the mansion, while six more snipers held positions on the roof. Twelve more sentries fortified the 17-acre grounds. All twenty-one rooms of the hacienda were wired with hidden video cameras that recorded around the clock. And at night, laser beam motion detectors crisscrossed the grounds, making it impassable. Completing the muscle were ten Rottweilers beaten daily to ensure their savagery never waned.
Zaplata planned to up the intimidation factor even more by installing remote-controlled .50 caliber machine-gun nests at various spots around the hacienda. When activated, machine-guns would rise up from the fountains and shrubbery and spew armor-piercing ordnance in forty-five degree arcs.
His contractor assured him that the guns would be installed and ready to test in two weeks. But even this much firepower could do nothing to stop DEA operatives from setting up their ultra-sensitive parabolic microphones in the brambly brush surrounding his property.
To combat this ongoing problem, Zaplata had a stadium-sized PA system set up in the courtyard to blast opera music at earsplitting decibels whenever he engaged in incriminating conversations. The horrid music and the wine cellar’s soundproofed walls helped to discourage eavesdropping. It was the best he could do under the circumstances.
Zaplata heard stilted conversation and footsteps thudding on concrete. Seconds later the board members trudged single-file into the wine cellar. Five men with bloodshot eyes and tousled hair slumped into their customary spots around the table.
The three men sitting to Zaplata’s left were known as his enforcers. Collectively, the trio had murdered at least sixty people for him. Lupe Sanchez sat closest to Zaplata. A pint-sized man with a mammoth temper, Sanchez could kill a person many ways using his hands, but over time his hand-to-hand killing techniques evolved to include car bombing.
Recognizing Sanchez’s pyromaniac bent, Zaplata flew in the chief bomb maker for the Hamas terrorist organization to teach Sanchez the complexities associated with bomb making. And he had learned well. Lupe’s piece de resistance came when he blew up the limousine transporting Mexican drug czar, Francisco Davila.
The suave and sophisticated Wilfredo Vargas, a handsome Puerto Rican who once contended for a middleweight boxing title, sat next to Sanchez. Vargas abruptly left the sport in his prime when a sparring partner flattened his perfect nose with a straight right.
The former boxer possessed impeccable manners and nifty dance moves. Ladies of all ages swooned in his presence. Cosmopolitan to a fault, Vargas despised getting his manicured hands and designer clothes dirty or bloody. For this reason he preferred using poison as his killing method. His technique required him to break into the victim’s abode and poison their food and beverages. Unfortunately, entire families sometimes perished from the arsenic. For this reason, Zaplata used Vargas sparingly. Collateral damage often outweighed his usefulness.
The third member of the enforcer triumvirate sat next to Vargas. At thirty-six-years-old, Salvador Monzon was his oldest assassin. Tall and rangy, Monzon’s dark skin was tough and leathery like a sun-weathered cowboy. He looked innocent enough on the outside, but underneath the rawhide and gristle, a serial killer plotted mayhem.
Aloof and emotionally detached, Monzon could be as patient as Job when waiting for a perfect long-range shot to unfold. Neither hunger nor thirst, freezing rain nor scorching sun could distract him from his purpose. A world class shooter, Monzon could ignite a match at 100 yards with his Springfield Armory M25 rifle.
Of the three, Zaplata feared Monzon the most, and would dearly love to terminate his employment, but resisted for fear a vengeful Monzon might retaliate.
The two remaining men in the room were his younger brothers, Fernando and Hector. In his opinion, his siblings possessed nothing more than average business sense. But they were his family, and would always have at least a limited role in his organization.
Zaplata cleared his throat to begin the meeting. “Fellow board members, we have an emergency. It appears our business associates from Louisiana have gotten themselves into serious trouble. They’ve killed a FBI agent and kidnapped a young girl. A manhunt is under way,” Zaplata paused to see if the board
members were listening. They were.
“How did you happen upon this information?” Fernando Zaplata asked, a sloppy man ten months younger than Carlos.
Before Fernando could answer, a soft knock sounded on the cellar door. A young man in his late teens stood in the doorway. A single sheet of paper dangled from his hand.
“Bring it here, Juan,” Zaplata ordered.
The youth shuffled forward and placed the paper in Zaplata’s outstretched hand. “Gracias, Juan. Now you may go back to your desk and wait for instructions. I may need you to reply back to our associates,” Zaplata said. He slid the e-mail hardcopy down the table to Fernando. “This is how I found out. Blaine Boudreaux sent us this message a few hours ago.”
Fernando read the coded e-mail out loud. When he finished he looked up at Carlos. His brow furrowed. “Are we going to comply? The Boudreauxs are low-level distributors. They can easily be replaced,” Fernando said.
Too nervous to sit, Zaplata stood up and walked along his prized wine racks. He dragged a finger lovingly along the corked bottles. “I’m afraid we have no choice, Fernando. If the Boudreauxs are captured by the FBI they will chatter like magpies. The damage they could do would take years to overcome. We would stand to lose more than a hundred-million-dollars, perhaps billions.”
“So who is going to pick them up? And how?” Hector asked, slightly thinner than Fernando. “Can we get there in time in this storm?”
Zaplata pulled a dusty bottle from a wine rack and turned to look at his younger brother. “I am going, little brother. And I’m taking Lupe, Wilfredo, and Salvador with me, as well as a select few bodyguards. We will leave within the hour and take a commercial fishing boat loaded down with shrimp for cover. As for the weather…we can do nothing to change it. So why worry about it?”
“Do you think this is wise, Carlos?” Hector persisted. “Have you forgotten the reward? America will pay three-million dollars for your arrest. Surely you don’t have to go.”
Zaplata sighed. “You’re right, Hector. I don’t have to go. But I want to. I have grown bored with my life. I need a little danger to make my blood run hot again.” Zaplata allowed his declaration to linger in the air for all to absorb. He shot a brief glance at his enforcers. The deadly trio returned his glance with impassive stares. Their thoughts were impossible to gauge.
His enforcers were prohibited from talking at board meetings, yet Zaplata always demanded their attendance. He knew their loyalty would only last as long as they were respected and received fair compensation. He certainly couldn’t blame them for their volatile allegiance. He would act no differently if he were in their subordinate position.
The drug lord turned his attention once more to Fernando. His brother seemed lost in his thoughts. Zaplata detected a faint grin working its way across Fernando’s pudgy jowls. “What are you thinking, Fernando?” Zaplata asked. “Do you agree with Hector?”
“There is considerable danger involved in such a risky operation, Carlos. This you cannot deny. But who am I to discourage you. You are a grown man,” Fernando said flatly. “It is your decision.”
Zaplata placed the bottle of Brunello di Montalcino on the table, and then retrieved six golden goblets from a padlocked cabinet. The priceless goblets were Aztec artifacts stolen from a museum in Tucson. He placed a goblet in front of each man, and then poured a small amount of the expensive wine into each of them.
“Carlos, what do you plan to do with the Boudreauxs once you rescue them? They can’t possibly be of any use to us now,” Hector asked.
Zaplata’s dark eyes narrowed into black streaks. “The Boudreauxs have been faithful business partners with us for several years. They deserve to be treated with respect and civility. So once we’re safely out in the Gulf, they will be given a proper burial at sea.”
Zaplata filled his own goblet and raised it for all to see. “May our profits continue,” he said before downing the vintage Italian red in three swallows.
Chapter 22
With each passing second, Captain Alex Stovall felt his character being tested a little more. He prided himself at thriving in all environments. But even he had his limits when faced with circumstances beyond his control.
His men ran out of sandbags twenty minutes ago. Worse, they just received word that the re-supply trucks had encountered impassable floodwaters on the service road to the south. The trucks were immediately detoured to the northeast, but Stovall knew that by the time the trucks looped forty miles out of their way it wouldn’t matter. The levee system would be overwhelmed and he and his men would drown if they stayed at their present location.
With his body bent by the wind, Stovall studied the floodwater surge lapping at a fifty-yard bastion of sandbags. His most optimistic prediction was that this portion of the levee would give way in thirty minutes or less.
This sobering certainty forced him to act decisively. His men, exhausted and soaked to the skin, were waiting for their orders. With nothing to do they loitered around the empty flatbed, some of the lighter ones hanging on to the truck for their lives as occasional 140-mile-per-hour wind gusts rocked the heavy truck back and forth.
Stovall felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face Sergeant Blanchard. Grim-faced, the scrappy sergeant handed a radio receiver to Stovall. “Sir, its Lieutenant Cole on the line.”
Stovall grabbed the radio. “Lieutenant, what’s your situation, over? Lieutenant Cole, do you copy?”
A few seconds ticked by before he got an answer. Lincoln Cole’s normally booming voice sounded puny and desperate. Stovall could barely hear it over the radio static.
“Captain, we’re in dire straits. We need reinforcements ASAP. The water is rising faster than we can work. Can you spare us some men?”
“Help is on its way, Lieutenant. How is your sandbag supply holding out?”
“Say again?”
“Do you have sandbags, Lieutenant? We’ve run out over here.”
“We have plenty, sir. A supply truck replenished us.”
“Are you still at mile marker 16?” Stovall asked.
“Affirmative, Captain.”
“Sit tight, Lieutenant. My men are on their way.”
“Roger that, Captain. What’s your ETA?”
“Twenty to thirty minutes. These trucks aren’t built for speed.”
“Be careful, Captain. There’s water over the road in many places.”
“Don’t worry about us, Lieutenant. Just keep your men working. The cavalry is coming, over and out.” Stovall handed the radio back to Sgt. Blanchard. “Round up the men, Sergeant. We’re clearing out. Lieutenant Cole needs some strong backs.”
“Yes, sir,” Blanchard replied, and hurried off.
Stovall turned his back on the sandbag wall. His men had done all they could here, and staying at their present location would be suicidal. Drowning wasn’t how he wanted to leave this world. He had a wife back home and twin sons who needed his guidance. His family depended on him way too much for him to be checking out.
I have to stay alive, he thought. I can’t let this river swallow me up.
Chapter 23
For the fifth time in an hour, Newton Laskey tasted bitter defeat. And the setbacks pounded his head like a drum. He honestly didn’t know what to do to change his fortune.
His makeshift Hostage Rescue Team had just finished visiting all residences thought to be harboring the fugitive Boudreauxs. And so far they’d been unable to question a single person.
In each case the residence was either vacant or no longer standing, demolished to rubble by Hurricane Vera. By a stroke of blind luck, Laskey and his men found Luc Boudreaux’s trailer floating upside down in Copeland’s flooded business district, but a quick peek inside revealed Luc had wisely evacuated his trailer-turned-houseboat.
Hunkered in Lester Tubbs’ Bass Boat, Laskey shined his flashlight on Louise Guidry’s one bedroom bungalow. He half-expected to see the old woman perched atop the sagging roof. Louise was Claude Boudreaux’
s older sister, and the roof remained the only part of her home not under water. If Laskey and his men wanted to search inside her home they would need scuba gear.
Laskey peeked at his men. Even though they were worn slick, the soggy FBI agents looked mad enough to start a mutiny. Laskey understood their disenchantment. He had pushed them incredibly hard, and they were no doubt questioning his rationale. They probably thought that sometime during the search for agents Crawford and Cooper he reincarnated himself into Captain Ahab. He’d readily admit to being stubborn, maybe even a little obsessed. But he wasn’t crazy. He just didn’t want to quit looking for his people. Whether alive or dead, he had to find them.
Years ago, before he joined the FBI, he’d been a Marine. The Corps longstanding mantra is to leave no man behind. And although he no longer wore the uniform, Laskey still considered himself a Marine at heart. And he realized now, just how much the Marine Corps influenced him.
Throughout the search he had purposely ignored an augmenting premonition. But now they’d exhausted nearly all possibilities, and he had no choice but to consider the forewarning.
Laskey touched Deputy Stark’s knee, then pointed toward a three-story brick building, the highest structure in Copeland. Starks nodded and guided the boat through flooded streets and alleys to the VFW hall. Once behind the brick building the wind dropped precipitously.
“You believe in déjà vu, Starks?” Laskey asked.
The young deputy nodded his head. “I don’t know what causes it, but it happens to me all the time.”
Laskey glanced at his men. They stared back at him, confusion building in their eyes. “Have you always lived in these parts, Deputy?”
Eugene Starks nodded his head again.
“Then you’re no doubt familiar with a kidnapping incident that took place about twenty years ago involving the Boudreauxs and a little girl named Annie McAllister?”