I studied them as they formed up in squads. Under their tactical vests the Miami-Dade cops were wearing tan short-sleeve shirts with departmental patches on the shoulders. Their trousers were brown, with contrasting tan stripes on the sides. Regular police uniforms. Their brown vests were cut high to ride above the normal police belts holding their standard pistols, Tasers and handcuffs.
The police all looked top-heavy, artificially puffed up from wearing layers of soft and hard body armor both inside and outside their uniform shirts. The tactical vests that carried the hard rifle plates bulged even more with extra ammunition magazines and other gear in innumerable pouches attached to every available square inch. But their helmets were the most unsettling part of their appearance. They looked like GI-surplus Kevlar brain buckets, but they were refinished in gleaming gold. Was this the America that I remembered? No, it was definitely someplace very different.
The riflemen formed up in pairs and began walking down the driver’s sides of their assigned lanes of cars, pausing to eyeball one trapped vehicle at a time. The pairs moved out at staggered intervals. They were keeping their arcs of fire clear and avoiding cross-fire situations. This indicated either a high level of training or military infantry backgrounds. Or both. For sure, this wasn’t their first time doing an urban traffic cordon and search.
These cops probably kept their helmets and tactical vests in their patrol car trunks. I guessed that they had all suited up at a staging area someplace nearby, and then arranged their vehicles to roll out in a carefully planned sequence. More of the armor-plated riflemen-cops spread themselves out on both sidewalks. I supposed they were positioned to discourage anyone from bolting from a car and fleeing on foot.
Over the next few minutes the pairs worked their way toward us. A few cars ahead of us I saw one of the up-armored policemen speaking to somebody in an SUV. I guessed that in each buddy pair there was at least one speaker of English and one of Spanish to minimize language difficulties. The cop took a device that looked like an orange smoke alarm or small Frisbee from his vest and placed it on the roof of the vehicle. By his lips and body language I could tell that he was explaining something to the occupants of the SUV, or giving them orders. The disc began to blink; there was a red strobe light on top.
The pair of cops handling the right lane of traffic walked toward us between the rows of cars, speaking with the drivers and checking IDs. One of those right-lane cops placed another orange disc on the roof of a white Lexus just two cars in front of us.
I said, “Talk to me, Kelly. What’s going on?”
“They’ll take the cars with the lights for secondary screening—a full-out search and background check. Fingerprints, retinal scans, all of it. I think mostly they’re looking for gang tats. They want to keep the criminal element out of downtown Miami.”
“What about the strobes?”
“It’s an electromagnet. I saw it on TV. When they’re activated, you can’t pry them off without a crowbar. It has a GPS tracker too, so it’s not just the strobe light. Basically they help people decide not to make a run for it in their cars, because everybody knows you can’t get away no matter what. It’s a control mechanism. It would take too long to search every car on the block right here. So they just put on some strobes and let everybody else go.”
Nick muttered, “Just like tagging sheep. And you know where they wind up.”
Kelly said, “Okay guys. Get your licenses out.”
This was new for me, after my years abroad. “Everybody in the car has to show ID now?”
She shrugged. “Didn’t we always?”
“No,” I replied. “We didn’t always.” I examined the counterfeit Oregon driver’s license Kelly had created for me. It was only meant to be flashed to a bored rent-a-cop at the Fontainebleau, and it had never been tested. “How good is this thing?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I never saw a real one. Looks good to me. Except the holograms and the little shiny things kind of suck, cause they’re just 2-D instead of 3-D.”
I asked her, “What if they scan it, or swipe the magnetic strip?”
She smiled at me nervously. “Well, then we’re basically screwed.”
I heard rotor blades above, leaned out just a bit and saw a green-and-white helicopter about five hundred feet up. The message was crystal: no car could escape the all-seeing eye in the sky, especially not with a blinking strobe stuck to its roof and surrounded by fifty riflemen. So surrender, and submit to your fate. You are already under arrest; we just haven’t slapped the handcuffs on yet. The penitentiary wall is already around you, you just can’t see it. So we’re here to remind you that you are not free to go.
The riflemen-cops checking our lane finished with the Lexus and then stopped alongside the silver BMW immediately ahead of us. I could see the driver’s ID being passed to a cop for close inspection and scanning with some kind of a smart pad. I tried to guess the criteria they were using for selecting which cars to strobe. If we were strobed, we were finished.
The cop turned to his partner and was handed another light. The orange disc was about six inches in diameter, with a sharp edge to make removing it with fingers impossible. The police officer slowly shook his head “no” to the occupants of the car. I couldn’t see or hear the driver’s side of the exchange, but the officer activated the strobe with a key and placed it on the center of the Beemer’s roof. Then the cop made some annotations on his smart screen while he chatted with someone who was obviously elsewhere. His screen was attached to his vest with a bungee lanyard; when he didn’t need it, he would just let it dangle or slide it into its pouch. No doubt if he wanted to, he could also see the color video streaming down from the chopper orbiting above us. Fifty riflemen, interconnected this way like a single organism with a hundred eyes and one controlling brain, were a formidable fighting force. A flash-mob of SWAT cops, like Kelly said. And they owned us.
Kelly said, “I hope he doesn’t have something against German cars.”
I had to admire her spunk for being able to make a joke during what might have been her last minutes living in relative freedom. She was showing a great deal of cool. I said, “Yeah, let’s hope not. Hey, you have your license ready?” I hadn’t noticed her digging into her purse or wallet.
She flicked the card above her bare left thigh and just up into my sight. “Dan, I was born ready. Just let me do the talking, okay? Be glad you’re well dressed. You two don’t look like slobs today. You look nice. But do me a favor and don’t talk to the nice policemen.”
Kelly was a smooth operator. My wingman sitting behind me was an unknown quantity in this type of scenario. Last chance for a sitrep. “How you doing back there, Nick? Just keeping it cool, right?” I hoped his .357 magnum was still hidden in the laptop case under the folded-down seat to his left. That he wouldn’t panic and pull it out. If he did, we’d be turned into bloody Swiss cheese.
If we were selected for a secondary search, we were toast. That was a given. The Glock against my right hip felt as big as an anchor and just as obvious, even beneath my Hawaiian shirt. I wished that it was still in the door’s map pocket, concealed by an open mini-atlas. To even imagine that just a few minutes before I was preparing to hijack the waverunner truck on this same city street!
In a nervous whisper Nick asked, “What if they put a light on us? What then? What are we going to do?”
“Nothing crazy,” I said. “Just go with the flow. Stay calm, no matter what.” I tried to sound positive, but my heart was sinking like a stone plunging down a dark well. Go with the flow, straight down the old crapper into the abyss. Giving our full cooperation like good citizens might mean at least ten years on gun charges alone. But resisting would be worse. Pulling guns or running would mean learning what it feels like to have a dozen 5.56-mm bullets ripping and tumbling through my body at three thousand feet per second. Instant hamburger. I’d seen it. I’d done it.
The only alternative to suicide by cop was meek acquiescence an
d imprisonment. Tip your cap to the hangman before politely doffing it for his noose. Goodbye, Rebel Yell and limitless horizons. Hello, tiny concrete cells and steel doors, for many years or for forever. And needless to mention, there would be no rescue of Cori Vargas. Cori would be left to the cruel mercy of fate. Imagine me spinning the completely true tale of my past week to the other prisoners in the Dade County Jail’s in-processing cells. They would judge me a madman.
And they might be right, but not for the reasons they believed.
Then it was our turn to receive the initial street inspection. I briefly glanced at the nearer cop and saw him smiling down at Kelly as he approached her open window. His carbine was dangling straight down along his right side by its single-point sling. He was probably about my age and probably an Anglo, but he was wearing sunglasses, and with the gold helmet and chinstrap on, it was hard to be sure. Kelly had pushed her sunglasses up on her head so that she could turn the full force of her girl power on him. I was certain that her shapely thighs made a tasty presentation from his perspective looking down into the car. Why look any further, officer?
Certainly nothing else in the GTI was as visually appealing as the smiling face, slim waist and smooth, bare legs of nubile young Kelly Urbanzik. Certainly not the counterfeit license held between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, resting so casually on my thigh. Just please don’t ask to see it!
The other cop in the buddy pair lingered near the front corner of the GTI, looking down at us through the windshield. This cop had both hands on his carbine, his head on a swivel, his eyes invisible behind mirrored sunglasses. His rifle’s muzzle was aimed down to his left, his right trigger finger indexed straight ahead. (He didn’t stand directly in front of our car. None of the police did, lest a crazed driver decide to take one of Miami’s finest with him on the fast road to perdition.)
At least I didn’t have to worry about an accidental discharge, as was typical in the third world. Ray Romeiro’s boys were well trained at urban warfare. And why not? Millions of us had learned the trade on Uncle Sam’s dime over in the sandbox. It wasn’t rocket science, and with minor adaptations for local conditions it worked anywhere.
I stared forward with my most non-threatening poker face. I felt as if the Glock on my hip was glowing and pulsing out a warning signal. Like an infrared strobe visible only to cops. I turned my eyes a few degrees left and saw the police officer tap the lower left corner of the GTI’s windshield with his index finger.
He said, “You’ll have no problem, Miss. They’ll let the right lane move out first, all the way through. Then they’ll release your lane. You have a nice day, folks.” And then he actually smiled at us, showing even white teeth, before backing away from our car and turning his attention to the next in line behind us.
I felt the stopped blood rushing back through my arteries in torrents. I’m sure my face had turned crimson during the stop. The cop didn’t even ask to see my ID, or Nick’s. His license was a year expired. My photoshopped and home-laminated Oregon license would have signaled “FAIL” as soon as it was laid on his smart screen. But we weren’t asked to hand over our IDs. We weren’t designated for secondary screening. We had no magnetized Judas light blinking away on our roof.
The key frame of the entire episode was frozen in my mind: the cop touching the corner of our windshield. I asked Kelly, “What was the deal with his finger?”
She said, “I think we just look like model citizens. Honest taxpayers.”
With elation in his voice Nick said, “I told you having a SunPassUltra would pay off. It’s beige, so the cops can tell it’s not a regular SunPass. And Ultras have background checks, right? So why would we need to be checked again?”
“No,” I said, “I think it was the military officer’s sticker.” The blue Department of Defense sticker and the SunPassUltra box were in the same lower left corner of the windshield, but on opposite sides of the glass.
“Fucking officers always get the breaks, those bastards,” said Nick with ironic admiration. “Even your brother the ensign. From a thousand miles away, just by proxy.”
Kelly could not stop smiling. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. It’s a lucky break, no matter how we got it.”
The relief we all felt inside the GTI was palpable and immense, a bubble of joy lifting us skyward. The exclusive SunPassUltra combined with the military officer’s decal must have provided assurance to the policeman that we were, like him, vested members of the government power establishment. Even driving a ten-year-old Volkswagen hatchback.
After a few more minutes the up-armored cops swiftly retraced their steps back to their vehicles. The line of police cars across 36th Street began to move forward, partially unblocking the street beginning with the right lane. The traffic signal finally went to green, and the right lane moved forward slowly, under close police supervision. I noticed that the passengers in the strobed cars all had their fingers interlaced behind their heads. These cars turned to the right as directed by knots of police officers standing near the corner. Then our left lane was allowed to go forward, and we were moving at last.
On the vacant parking lot to our right, a half-dozen unlucky cars and pickups were surrounded by helmeted policemen in their tan-and-brown battle rattle. Men, women and children were already leaning against car hoods, getting the old “enhanced pat-downs” with their legs spread wide. None of them appeared to be tattooed gang members.
A pair of German shepherds straining against their handlers’ leashes provided yet another level of safety to the grateful public. The message was clear: “If you don’t like the feel of my fingers on your groin and breasts, perhaps you would prefer to feel a K-9’s canines? Just provide the slightest hint of resistance.”
Kelly brought me back from my reflections. “The waverunner truck is long gone by now.” She slid over to the right lane, and after a block we were turning right to head south on Biscayne Boulevard. The GPS said it was 1.6 miles to the MacArthur Causeway, and then it was just a hop and a skip over to Hibiscus Isle and Topaz.
I said, “The good news is, we didn’t get a strobe light slapped on our roof.”
“And we’re not in handcuffs,” Kelly added.
“At least the tracker will wind up on Topaz,” said Nick. “That’s still a victory, any way you look at it.”
I had to give them credit. “That’s true. Good job, guys.” Then I had another idea. “Wait a minute: Watson Island. We can still take another shot at the truck. The waverunner truck will have to go through the inspection lanes before it gets across the causeway to Hibiscus Isle. If we go through the Ultra lane, we can get through first. Then I can get out and slide over and—”
“Slide over and what?” Kelly snapped. “Hijack the waverunner truck in front of hundreds of witnesses?”
“That’s not ‘another shot,’” said Nick. “That’s crazy talk. Watson Island is wall-to-wall police and security cameras.”
“Nick’s right,” Kelly continued. “No way. Sorry, Dan, but that’s a dumb-ass idea.”
They were right, of course. I felt chastened and made no further plea for hijacking the truck. At this point it was indeed stupid to even consider it. Missing the chance to hijack the waverunner truck left me feeling a fresh sting of defeat. It would have meant a free pass straight past security onto Hibiscus Isle, with a totally believable cover for our presence on Richard Prechter’s property and aboard Topaz. I was letting my frustration, emotions and adrenaline outrun common sense and sound tactics. When emotions go up, rational thinking goes down. That’s a good way to get dead.
16
It was time to regroup. Climb outside our mental boxes. I had an invitation in my pocket to a cocktail party on one of the private Miami Beach isles. This meant another chance to intersect with Richard Prechter, but this time by the water, and after dark. Snatching him was becoming my favored option. If I had Prechter under my control, I was sure I could persuade him to order Cori’s release.
B
ut he might not even show up at the GORP party, or I might not get be able to get close to him. So it might still come down to a frogman-style surface-swimming attack directly on Prechter’s yacht and mansion. We needed a considerable amount of gear to meet even the minimal requirements of that mission, and there was not enough time to shop around town for it. Plus more driving around meant more chance of being snagged in another flying checkpoint. So that left us with really only one option: a complete outfitting at one address.
“Okay, guys, new plan. Forget the waverunner truck. We need to get ready for a night sneak attack on Topaz, from the water. That means we need a boat, a motor, a lot of stuff. The best place for that used to be down near the Miami River, off of Flagler.”
“I’ll bet I know the place,” said Nick. “Pasquale’s, right?”
“Yeah. Is it still in business?”
“It was last year. That’s where I bought my inflatable and a lot of other crap before I split for the islands.”
“Do you know where it is?” I asked Kelly.
“I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Just keep going down Biscayne, then it’s about a mile west across Flagler. It’s almost at the Miami River.” I entered the route on the GPS. Five miles and change. We were all still twitchy from our close call at the Blockdown, but we saw no unusual police activity on the way down and across Miami.
Pasquale’s was located in the shade of a massive flyover, one of a dozen bridges crisscrossing above the sluggish Miami River. We pulled through the marine outfitter’s chain-link perimeter fence twenty minutes after escaping the police cordon. The big hangar doors on opposite sides of the main warehouse building were slid all the way open to let the breeze through. Part of the secret to Pasquale’s long survival was its low overhead. Only about one-tenth of the floor space, just a corner office, was air-conditioned. Business was middling for a Friday afternoon. Outside, customers wandered among boats, trailers, anchors and piles of chain up to tugboat size.
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