Castigo Cay

by Matthew Bracken

  Kelly said, “What happened at the party? Did you see Prechter?”

  “I saw him all right. I saw him leave with Senator Sanchez on Topaz’s dinghy. Topaz just went past here, straight out to the ocean.” It was difficult to conceal my bitter disappointment, and I was glad it was dark. Nothing kills troop morale like a leader conveying an air of defeat.

  Kelly must have sensed my black mood and said nothing else while we climbed into her car and seat-belted in. After starting the engine she just asked, “What next?”

  “Back to the Pantera. Fort Lauderdale. After we take the batteries out of our phones.” If we were already under any kind of ongoing surveillance, the three phones being switched off would be a red flag of its own. But nothing could be done about that, except to hope that we were again off the radar.

  Once our cell phones were neutralized she put her car in gear and away we went, out of South Point Park and north on Alton Road. The same Alton Road that, further north, led to the Sunset Isles and Tony Marcello’s waterfront party. Kelly made the left onto the MacArthur Causeway, and we headed back to Miami and the interstate highway.

  Behind me, Nick groused, “So, we basically wasted a whole day and we let Topaz get away. Man, I love it when a good plan comes together.”

  I shot back, “What, you had a better plan? Why didn’t I hear it this morning? Why didn’t I hear it at the restaurant?” I immediately regretted my defensive tone.

  He said flatly, “I just think if we’d skipped the damn house party and gone straight to doing the Topaz raid, we’d have your girlfriend right now.”

  A debate wasn’t going to restore morale and get the mission back on track. I replied with gratitude instead of another verbal jab. Honey instead of vinegar. “At least the tracker is on Topaz—thanks to you guys.”

  Kelly said, “You’re welcome,” and flashed part of a smile for a quarter second.

  We drove over the high causeway bridge that we’d just motored under in the Zodiac. Ahead of us the night skyline of downtown Miami beckoned us onward, but its sparkling beauty only mocked my seething anger. We passed Palm and Hibiscus Isles and Watson Island in silence, rolled onto the mainland and merged onto I-95. We were driving north while Topaz was surging eastward out into the Atlantic. Every minute was taking us further away from Cori Vargas, and probably from Brooke Tierstadt as well.

  The three of us kept our silence. The worst time for recriminations is while passions are hot and disappointment is felt most deeply. I’d seen plenty of post-mission debriefs degenerate into shoving matches and even fistfights, with threats made, punches thrown and stripes lost. That was back when a combination of tactical blunders and simple fate had cost the lives or limbs of our buddies.

  So we let the highway hum under our wheels and the dirty wind swirl around us in the GTI, while the lights of nighttime Miami flowed past us on both sides. At least the heat of the day and the glare of the sun were gone.

  20

  Friday night traffic on I-95 was lighter than I remembered it. Not much nightclubbing on the mainland during a depression. When we crossed the line back into Broward County, the lights high up the steel utility poles planted along the highway weren’t on, as they had been back in Dade. We had taken the ambient light at road level for granted, and then—snap!—it was gone. Now we had only our headlights and the headlights of the few cars and trucks around us for illumination.

  “What’s the deal with the light poles?” I asked Kelly.

  “Broward County can’t pay its electric bills. Last year they defaulted and nobody will buy our bonds. We’re broke, essentially. Our local power plant runs on oil, and we can’t afford it. Dade County has the Turkey Point nuclear plant, so they’re taken care of, but Ray Romeiro doesn’t give it away to deadbeats for bad paper. Not anymore.”

  On both sides of the highway, homes and businesses were still lit. “What about these people? They have power.”

  “Sure, as long as they can pay for it, or they get shut off too.”

  Nick said, “But the traffic signals are working.” The red and green lights were easily visible when the highway crossed above the major surface roads.

  “Don’t ask me how they work it,” replied Kelly. “You’d have to ask the politicians. They have to triage their power use. I guess highway lights don’t make the cut. They’re considered non-essential or something like that.”

  I said, “But I-95 is an interstate highway. Don’t the feds have to take care of it?”

  Both of my companions snorted with laughter. Kelly said, “Maybe they used to, but not anymore. At least not in South Florida.”

  The highway passed closely along the western perimeter fence of Fort Lauderdale International. I was reminded of this by a jet aircraft on descent crossing just above the highway to land toward the ocean. I got a quick look down the main runway in passing. Strings of white, blue, yellow and red lights blinking and pulsing to their own secret rhythms. Planes were still flying into Lauderdale, which was a positive sign. Were they bringing foreign tourists? Wealthy Americans? A few high rollers? Federal agents?

  The glowing GPS on the dashboard indicated seven miles to our exit at Oakland Park Boulevard, the scene of that morning’s union action. Kelly kept to the speed limit, staying mainly in middle lanes. She moved to the right in plenty of time before our turn and steered down the long ramp. Just a few miles now to the Pantera and the Atlantic.

  Oakland Park was one of the major east-west arteries in the county. It was eight lanes wide, but it was unlit by any streetlights except for a few in the distance above the major intersections. I was beginning to share Kelly’s appreciation for Police Chief Ray Romeiro. At least the streets and highways were not dark back in Dade County.

  As soon as we merged onto Oakland Park, blue lights began flashing behind us. Nick called out “Cops!” but his announcement was redundant. It was impossible not to notice the lights. Another shot of adrenalin jacked my senses into the danger zone. Had they picked us up on 95 and followed us down the ramp? It occurred to me that Kelly did not signal her final turn off the highway. Did you have to signal if you were already in an exit-only lane?

  But was this really about a forgotten turn signal? It seemed unlikely. If this cop was determined to pull a shakedown and not just write a ticket, he would want to do it in a dark, secluded corner, like a tarantula dragging its prey into a hole to devour it unseen.

  What the cop didn’t understand was that I wanted seclusion even more. Above all, I didn’t want to attract any more official police attention. I needed to get off Oakland Park Boulevard and deal with this traffic stop informally. Pay the bribe and be done with it.

  That’s if it was just a basic shakedown by a corrupt cop or two. This kind of traffic-stop larceny was a way of life in Latin America, and South Florida was undeniably an extension of Latin America now. But was this something more than a random shakedown? Were we tracked here, and were the lights flashing behind us merely the opening act of a well-laid ambush? I thought of Frank Bloomfield and the vast federal resources at his fingertips via his smart phone. This was certainly within his capacity to arrange.

  The police car’s siren yelped and Kelly blurted out, “But I wasn’t even speeding. God, I hate driving at night!”

  “Turn here,” I said. “After the white building.” A closed carwash was the first business to the right on Oakland Park after the ramp from the interstate. Our headlights, the headlights of the police car behind us, and its flashing lights provided the illumination on the unlit boulevard.

  “Here?” she responded doubtfully. I could hear the fright rising in her voice.

  “Yes, turn, turn!” If an ambush was in the offing, I wanted to upset the ambushers’ timing and placement with an unexpectedly early exit from Oakland Park onto a side street. Kelly had to brake hard and spin the wheel to make the corner.

  While momentarily out of their sight behind the shuttered carwash, I pushed my outside mirror all the way out to protect our eye
s and told her to do the same. She did so without asking why. I also shoved the GTI’s interior rearview mirror upward and then grabbed my Glock from the door’s map pocket. I slid it into the small of my back as the police car rounded the corner. Carrying a pistol there is my last choice. But on rare and special occasions, it is the least worst option.

  Five grand was in the left pocket of my cargo shorts. Ten of my five-hundred-dollar bills were folded over to make a little square, a quarter inch thick and bound with a rubber band. “Mugger’s money,” some people called these handy little bundles of cash. I grabbed it, just to be ready.

  I knew this situation had to be resolved rapidly, before other police officers were called to provide backup. But if this cop is corrupt, I considered, he’ll want privacy, not company. There’ll be no backup called on a rip-off. He won’t want to share any bribe money or confiscated loot, or risk being reported. I just hoped the bribe could be paid as casually as in the Dominican Republic or Colombia. In that event we would quickly be on our way to the Pantera, a bit poorer but none the worse for wear.

  “Stop here?” asked Kelly.

  “No, a little further. Not too close to Oakland Park.” A block up the side street from the back of the carwash was a mini-storage surrounded by a high concrete wall. The only ambient light came from above the mini-storage’s side door, a hundred feet away. The door was inset in an alcove and completely caged off with chain link and razor wire.

  The police car behind us yelped another warning.

  “They’re really pissed, Dan. I should stop.”

  “This is good.”

  “Here?”

  “Here.” The cement wall of the mini-storage was about ten feet from the curb, set back from a wide sidewalk. It was covered with graffiti. I said to both of them, “I’ll handle this. Listen only to me, not to them, no matter what they say.” The police car, a few dozen yards behind us, gave a few more warning yelps with its siren. I’d never heard one like it.

  Kelly popped her gearshift into neutral and yanked up the emergency brake. She reached for the key to cut off the ignition, but I stopped her hand. “Keep the motor running. This won’t take long.” I pushed my door open and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The police car came to a stop about twenty feet directly behind us. Over their high-beam headlights I could make out the shape of a big sedan with blue lights flashing at roof level. The blue lights were switched off, and a second later I was hit smack in my face with a serious find-the-ship-at-night spotlight.

  My eyes were already half closed in anticipation of being lit up, and I blinked them tightly shut and immediately covered them with my left hand. When I cracked them slightly, I could see nothing ahead of me but a brain-frying wall of light.

  I hollered, “What the hell? Jesus, did you have to do that?” The wad of money was palmed in my raised left hand, held toward my eyes. The light was so intense that the folded cash made an opaque square against my glowing red-orange hand.

  In a few seconds, some of my normal sight returned. As long as I kept my hand in front of my eyes, I had vision to the sides and down, while blinking and squinting against the overwhelming glare. I winked my left eye shut and kept it closed, to give it a head start on readjusting to the dark.

  A shrill voice called out, “Police! Policía! You—get down on the ground! Driver: you show me your hands out from the window!” His show sounded more like Joe, and his you almost like chew.

  I yelled back, “Goddammit, do you have to blind me here? What did we do? We weren’t speeding.” My main concern was being outflanked in the dark by a circling adversary, and I kept my eyes flitting from side to side behind my hand.

  Another voice bellowed out, “Hijo de puta, shut the fuck up, pendejo, and get in the floor.” So there were at least two of them. And English was not their first language.

  I stalled, pretending painful, dumbfounding blindness, wincing with my hand in front of my face. If this was an official line-of-duty traffic stop, I would be seeing the flashing lights of other patrol cars any second—if I could see anything in this world of glare. The few Broward cops I’d seen had preferred to travel in packs, even in daylight. And why did these police turn off their blue flashing lights? And I didn’t hear any police radio chatter in the background. “Look, fellas, I know we weren’t speeding, and we haven’t been drinking. Is one of our taillights out?”

  The first voice answered, “I don’t say it one more time—get down on the ground! Get down on the ground NOW!”

  Unless they were going to shoot me where I stood, as long as I balked at their commands one or both of the cops was going to have to come forward away from their patrol car to deal with me. But both voices remained behind the light. If they were legitimate police, they’d probably just wait for backup before making the up-close-and-personal approach. If they weren’t legit, they’d be in a hurry to do whatever they planned to do and be gone. The center of the new sideways sun stayed in the same place, as best I could determine through squinted eyes shielded behind my hand. I could see my own shoes, the mini-storage wall to my left and the back of the GTI to my right, and these kept me oriented spatially. For the moment at least we had achieved a standoff, however fragile.

  It was time to make an offer to “pay the fine” with cash. That’s what they would want and expect, whether they were actual cops who were corrupt, or civilian strong-arm robbers masquerading as cops under the cover of darkness. It was a shakedown either way. Best case: they would accept the bribe and we would drive away without further delay.

  That is, if they took the bribe, and if money was all they wanted. And not also a slim and trim twenty-year-old gringa, and a cute one at that. Local cops knew all of the pimps and whores in their jurisdictions on a first-name basis. In some of the nastier places I’d visited, the police were the pimps and brothel owners. Kelly’s young female body represented a preferred form of currency that paid dividends on a continuing basis. She was free money on the hoof, with the added benefit of forced sex at will. People who don’t believe that human slavery still exists in our hemisphere haven’t been to some of the places I’ve visited. If kidnapped, Kelly would be brutally broken in by pimp-rapists, and then locked in a cubicle crib in some hellish bordello.

  But none of that was going to happen, not while I was still alive to prevent it.

  If they successfully proned me out on the sidewalk and handcuffed me, then whether they were real cops or not, I’d be finished, and so would my companions. Not only was I carrying fake ID, we had illegal guns, illegal gold coins, unexplained and probably illegal amounts of cash, the highly suspicious Orbcom sat-texting unit, the false SunPassUltra… And a few moments after I was subdued they would notice pretty young Kelly Urbanzik, barely out of her teens, quivering behind the wheel. No, I couldn’t go passive and submissive on this one, cringing and pleading and hoping for the best while reflexively obeying the orders of “authority,” genuine or counterfeit. It was time to redirect the energy.

  I said, “Look, fellas, can’t we handle this some other way? Maybe I can make a small contribution to the police recreation fund. Like, maybe, five thousand dollars?”

  The first, possibly younger, voice spoke again. “What did you say?” The question was posed with difficulty: Wha’ chew say? I heard low, rapid Spanish being spoken. Caribbean accents, maybe. Not Mexican. I could see nothing in their direction but the blinding light, but I couldn’t let them determine the outcome of this encounter. Our night could not end either in a jail cell or a kidnapper’s hideout, or Cori and Brooke would be lost forever. And perhaps Kelly as well.

  I repeated the offer. “How about five thousand dollars instead of a ticket? What do you say?” Before the voice responded, I slowly rotated my left hand to palm-outward while still using it to shield my eyes. Folded, ten five-hundred-dollar bills made a three-inch square. After a second for them to study it, I tossed the cash not toward the police car but at an angle to my left, toward the wall of the mini-storage. The spotlight that
had been blinding me swung after the money, and I went the other way.

  The money bounced and landed at the exact intersection of the white cement wall and the sidewalk, a leaner. The blazing cone made a bull’s-eye of the little bundle. My Glock was already out. Both of my eyes wide open now, I sprinted behind the GTI’s rear hatch and out into the street. I could see the side of the police car and the backs of the two men silhouetted against the cement wall, the shine of their millioncandlepower light coming back on them.

  When their light swung back to find me standing by the GTI, I was already gone. The spotlight man searched with his white electric cone in erratic, choppy movements around the car, but I was already off to their side and then behind them in the darkness. The two men, each standing behind an open car door, were head-and-shoulder targets against the white cement wall. The range was less than twenty feet, and at that distance a Glock is an extension of my index finger. Instinctive firing, some old-timers in the Corps called it. That Glock had tritium night sights, but I was unaware of lining them up. I fired two rapid shots and saw each of their heads snap in succession.

  Their spotlight fell to the sidewalk on the other side of the Crown Vic, shining toward the graffiti-covered wall. The back splash from the wall gave off plenty of light, enough to check the results of our encounter. The man who had been behind the driver’s door was collapsed into the angle of door and frame, his head held in place at the neck and chin, his gruesome head wound on public display. He made a few reflexive shudders and kicks, and then settled into the stillness of death as if kneeling in supplication at an altar. He was bald or shaved-headed, very dark Latino, maybe Afro-Caribbean from the look of his remaining facial features. When I walked behind him I could read POLICE across the back of his dark windbreaker. Oh, shit.

  Kelly moaned something unintelligible. I yelled to Nick and Kelly, “I’m okay, I’m okay. Nick, come on out.”

  Nick scrambled out from under his rear hatch, his .357 in his right hand and a small flashlight in his left. He came around to the driver’s side of the big Ford. It was hard to ignore the head trapped in the crook of the door and wind-shield pillars. Especially when most of the forehead and part of the face were gone. Nick saw what was written on the dead man’s jacket and asked, “Are they really cops? Oh my God, did you just kill two cops? Oh, shit! Now we’re cop-killers?”