Tenderloin (Abby Kane FBI Thriller)

by Ty Hutchinson

  “He must have really pissed her off,” I said, folding my arms across my chest.

  “Nah, I get the feeling it’s a love-hate relationship between the two. She picked the wrong guy for a one-nighter.”

  I watched him move his finger along the trackpad of the laptop. Projected on the HD screen in front of me was the desktop of his computer. The cursor arrow settled on a folder titled Ballard, and he clicked it open. A title card with our guy’s name on it appeared. “I think I got everything ready,” he said as he clapped his hands.

  I had more questions, but time had run out, and agents were filing into the room and taking seats. All told, sixteen personnel had shown up. At fifteen minutes on the dot, Reilly walked back in.

  “If I could have your attention, Agents. Thank you. If you haven’t already heard, we’re here today because we have located Arnulfo Carson-Ballard, a.k.a. the Prince.”

  Reilly allowed a brief round of applause before continuing. “We haven’t had eyes on him or heard one word from the Prince for eight months, that is, until a few days ago when Agent Stone had an off-chance meeting with the girlfriend in the Cayman Islands. I’ll let him fill you in on the details.”

  Stone motioned for the lights, and everyone focused on the large screen on the wall. A picture of a sultry woman appeared and enlisted a bunch of whistles from the peanut gallery.

  “This beautiful bombshell is Nina Vazquez. She’s a fashion model from Portugal and the long-time girlfriend of Mr. Ballard.”

  I interrupted Stone. “Excuse me. You said she’s the long-time girlfriend. How come I haven’t heard of her before?”

  “Good question. This is Agent Abby Kane, the agent officially charged with investigating the case. The reason nobody here, or you, Agent, has heard of her is because she spent almost all of her time living in Lisbon and working exclusively in Paris. Through my brief interrogation before leaving the Caymans, I learned that both parties downplayed their relationship. It helped with the scam.”

  “Seems like a fashion model would make plenty of money. Why help her boyfriend steal?” I continued.

  “She wanted more.”

  Wow, insightful. Thanks for blowing me away. I strained not to follow up with an eye roll.

  Agent Stone spent the next ten minutes informing the other agents of what he had told me earlier. Once the agents in the room finished cheering Stone for his conquests, he continued with a picture of the Prince.

  “We don’t know why he came back to the States, but we have reason to believe he is staying at the home of a Korean real estate developer in Pacific Heights. As far as we know, they’re friends, and the developer is not involved in the Ponzi scheme.”

  Ten minutes of background later, the tactical part of the briefing commenced. The plan was simple: hit Ballard’s location as soon as possible. He wasn’t a violent individual, but Reilly upped the manpower anyway. I suspect he didn’t want to risk the Prince slipping through the Bureau’s hands again.

  Chapter 4

  The decision to wait for sundown came later from the Special Agent-in-Charge of the tactical aspects of the operation. It would help with the element of surprise, and to be honest, we needed the time to get the plan right. Reilly had long ago sent agents in disguise to keep an eye on the house in case our guy went on the move.

  When we arrived, we parked a block away and waited for the recon team, posing as workers for the electric company, to give the go ahead. When they did, we had fifteen agents in three SUVs pull up outside the residence within seconds of one another. I quickly slipped my FBI jacket over my Kevlar vest and exited the car. I remember facing the three-story structure, thinking it was a lot of square footage to cover. Our intelligence couldn’t confirm whether Ballard was the only person in the house. According to the recon team, the location appeared to be quiet. One might even think he had already flown the coop.

  Team One consisted of five agents. Their objective was to punch through the front door. They were the first ones in—the welcoming party.

  Team Two had four agents, and they moved along the left side of the house. Their objective was to breach from the side. I had embedded myself in Team Three. Our objective was to breach the rear of the house. Two agents remained at command center.

  We stacked up; I positioned myself third in the line of four. We were blind as to what we would find at the back of the house and prepared ourselves for the worst. As we rounded the corner to the rear, we heard Team One enter the property. Seconds later, we heard Team Two enter.

  The rear of the house consisted of a patio and a pair of French doors which we promptly destroyed with a battering ram. We cleared five rooms on that level before heading up the stairs. As we neared the main floor, we heard the continuous shouting of the word “clear.” In my experience, that was a good thing, but in this case, it was a bad sign.

  When we reached the main floor of the house, Team One had already holstered their weapons while Team Two made their way back down the stairs. “Top floor is clear,” said the first agent.

  Apparently Ballard had slipped through our fingers again.

  “Look at this.”

  I turned around and saw Agent House holding a handwritten note she had found. On it I could see a crude drawing of a hand giving the middle finger. It read, “Sincerely, Your Prince.”

  “I’m guessing our guy wrote this,” she said.

  It wasn’t hard to find Stone; I looked for the one person who had his jaw dragging across the floor. “Agent,” I called out.

  “I don’t get it,” he said, his arms out in a shrug. “I was so sure he would be here.”

  “According to this note, you were right.”

  Stone lowered his head and shook it slowly. “Yeah, but he should have been here. It’s like he knew we were coming.”

  “Anybody else know—”

  “No, no one knew. Ballard doesn’t know we have his girlfriend in custody. I don’t get it.”

  “Either he’s very lucky, or somehow he found out. How trustworthy are the officials in the Caymans?”

  “I didn’t vet them if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Clearly he was in a foul mood. I guess I would be too if I had thought I was Super Agent Man riding into town to save the day only to fall flat on my face. I headed for the exit.

  Outside I saw Reilly, and I walked over to him. “I’m assuming you heard.”

  “I did. It’s disappointing.”

  I nodded. Just then, we both heard someone gasp.

  A woman, one of the neighbors across the street, pointed at the roof. “There’s someone up there.”

  I spun around and looked up. Even though the sun had set, we could make out a figure crawling on the roof.

  A couple of agents removed handheld spotlights from their vehicles and lit the figure up. More reaction from the peanut gallery except this time, the agents joined in. Crouched on the rooftop was Ballard.

  He stood up and seemed to struggle to stay on his feet. He wore a black robe and had no shoes on. His hair was matted against his head, he appeared to be sweating badly, and he hadn’t shaved in days. I had never seen the fashionable Prince display this look before. He was the poster child for metrosexual, and now he’d fit in as a zombie extra in a horror flick. He really looked to be out of his mind. A nut.

  “I thought the house was cleared,” Reilly commented.

  “It was.”

  An agent appeared on the balcony near where Ballard stood on the roof.

  “Stay away!” he shouted. “Keep away from me!”

  He took a step backward, and my concerns heightened.

  “He’s got a rope around his neck,” I radioed to every agent. A suicide was last thing we wanted. From where he stood, it was a thirty-foot drop to the ground—plenty of hanging room.

  It caught me off guard when I heard Reilly shout out, “Mr. Ballard, talk to us. What can we do for you?”

  “What can you do? It’s over. There’s nothing left to do.”

>   No, don’t do it.

  Before another word could be spoken, Ballard ran forward and leapt from the rooftop. A woman’s scream pierced the silence. All eyes watched as his bare feet left the tiled roof. His arms reached out in front, and his mouth fell open. He didn’t scream or yell. He only had a look of shock on his face. Had he changed his mind?

  The jump propelled him straight out before he started to fall, at which point the rope picked up its slack and snapped tight, nearly decapitating him. It seemed as if hours had passed before a voice shouted, “Get him down from there.” Only then did we break from our voyeuristic lock on Ballard’s swaying body.

  Chapter 5

  The girl was nineteen. He was twenty. They both lived at home with their families, where privacy was a foreign word. The only place these two lovebirds, and many others, could find any time alone was in a field near the edge of their neighborhood. Such was life in Mitú, Colombia.

  That night, they had the field to themselves.

  The dull, reddish glow from a crackling log used to roast a chicken earlier lit the couple on the blanket—bright enough that they could stare into each other’s eyes, but not enough that they were visible to a passerby on the adjacent road. The jug of wine had been drained dry, and their bellies were pleasantly plump. The only satisfaction left to fulfill was their want for each other.

  The young woman giggled as she rolled on top of her boyfriend, pulling a part of the blanket over her. Their mouths embraced, and his tongue slipped between her lips and swirled around hers. His hardness pressed against her thigh, unrelenting since they first fell upon the blanket. It made her feel special. Wanted. Needed. Her own fire between her legs burned equally hot for him. She pulled away for a breath and stared into his brown eyes. She traced the side of his face with her finger, running it along his strong jaw to his bottom lip where she playfully tugged on it. He slipped his fingers through her hair, grabbing the silky strands before pulling her back to him.

  The two were virgins: masters at foreplay and clueless of how to move forward. She wanted him to lead. His shyness got in the way. So virgins they remained.

  “We should get going. Your father will be home soon,” he mumbled in their native tongue.

  “Forget about my father. I love lying in your arms. I could stay this way forever.”

  The young man kissed her again, and then thumbed her ribcage to wake her out of her dream state. She yelped and shifted away from his thumbs. “Stop. You know I can’t stand that.”

  The boy rolled her off and stood up. His manhood pressed his loose shorts out like a horn. She couldn’t help but stare and wonder why he didn’t give in.

  He extended his hand. “It’s almost nine. We must hurry.”

  After she grabbed hold of his hand, a low growl emerged from the darkness. The girl stood up quickly. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know, but I think we should gather our stuff quickly and get going.”

  The two hustled their belongings into their backpacks but were distracted by the same noise they’d heard earlier. It was louder and closer. Neither said a word as they hurried.

  The boy heard it move first. He stopped and added the remaining branches he’d collected earlier to the fire and fanned it.

  “What are you doing?” the girl asked, panicked.

  “If that thing gets closer, we’ll need this fire.”

  His first thought was that a wild dog had found them, but the growl was too throaty. The only other predatory animal he could think of was a jaguar, but rarely if ever did they leave the safety of the jungle. Whatever it was, it had decided to circle them.

  He strapped his backpack on then took a branch that had a bunch of leaves at the end and let it sit in the fire.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she said.

  “You go first. I’m going to distract the animal. When I do, I want you to start running back into town. Don’t stop until you reach the road.”

  “No. What about you?”

  The boy picked up her backpack and strapped it onto her back. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be right behind you.” He then kissed his girlfriend. “Remember: Don’t stop, no matter what you hear. Keep running until you’re safe.”

  He then pulled the branch out of the fire and had, in effect, a torch. “Okay, run.”

  The edge of the city was two hundred feet away, but it looked like a mile. The girl hesitated, but the boy gave her a gentle push.

  She started to walk and then jog with her head still twisted back, looking at him. She watched him walk in the opposite direction. He swung the torch back and forth and shouted. She continued to watch him, running only half-heartedly. She kept wishing he would stop and turn toward her, but he didn’t. He continued in the direction of the jungle. And then without notice, the boy vanished. So did his torch, as if someone snuffed it out like a candle. She stopped. Her eyes scanned the area where she had last seen him. She detected no movement in the moonlight and heard nothing for a few moments.

  Then the screams came, forceful screams that started low in the lungs and erupted out. They came in short bursts. These were screams that only intense pain could give birth to. The calls for help were more like guttural screeches. Then, as fast as the screams came, they stopped.

  She turned and started running toward the city, but she already knew it was too late. Whatever had attacked her boyfriend was fast upon her heels, quicker than she could have imagined. The growls grew louder. The steps behind her were suddenly in line with hers. She started to scream—not because she had been attacked, but out of fear. She shouldn’t have stopped. He had warned her.

  Chapter 6

  The media had a field day with Ballard’s suicide. It was all they reported on in the days that followed. To add to the hoopla, multiple neighbors caught his last hurrah on their cell phones and posted the videos online within the hour. While I wished we could have apprehended the amateur acrobat and prosecuted him in federal court, we had heard through the rumor mill that the victims were happy to see something about the Prince that was “hung.”

  These women wanted something more than closure; they wanted the world to see him for who he was: a weak man. He was a coward and had taken the easy way out.

  Of course we still had the girlfriend; she was guilty of aiding Ballard and would take the heat in court. Goodbye, catwalk. Hello, cellblock. Before Agent Stone left, I thanked him for his help. In the end, he came through with our guy, and I had officially closed the first case the FBI had assigned to me.

  I sat quietly at my desk and gave myself a few pats on the back. You still got it, Abby. It felt good. I thought of treating myself to a slice of Napoleon from the small bakery two blocks north of us in Little Saigon. Theirs was so delicious. Not dry at all, flaky with generous amounts of cream. Yummy. It would be perfect with a cup of green tea. As I grabbed my purse, Reilly poked his head out of his office.

  “Abby.”

  “Dammit,” I muttered. I put my purse back down and headed over to his office.

  “Take a seat,” he said as he looked up at me over his reading glasses. “I don’t have much time, and I’d rather not repeat myself, so listen carefully.”

  I took out my notepad and pen, knowing I wouldn’t jot anything down.

  “Our friends at the Drug Enforcement Administration sent a file over. They want us to look into a death,” Reilly said as he flipped his laptop around so I could see the picture on the screen. “The victim is a white male. He was found badly beaten—multiple contusions over every inch of his body.”

  “It looks like he was a punching bag.”

  “You could say that. Almost every bone in his body was broken.”

  “Talk about trauma.”

  Reilly tapped a few keys, and another picture appeared. “This is the victim’s face.”

  I nearly fell out of my chair.

  He didn’t look human. The swelling was well beyond what I had ever seen. He looked like a blow-up doll ready to burst at the se
ams. Dark discoloration signified intense bruising. I didn’t want to imagine what his torso looked like under his shirt.

  “We’re still waiting on the autopsy results,” Reilly added.

  “No noticeable lacerations or holes,” I noted. “Blunt trauma, mostly.”

  “It looks that way, but like I said, let’s see what the medical examiner has to say.” Reilly flipped his laptop back around and leaned back in his chair.

  I shook my head. The questions were coming. “Who’s the victim?”

  “He’s a DEA agent. His name is Fernando Riggs.”

  My stomach tightened a bit. It always did when the victim hit home. He wasn’t FBI, but the DEA was a sister agency. “Was he killed in the line of duty?”

  Reilly shook his head. “The locals found his body in a ditch.”

  “Locals?”

  “Special Agent Riggs was on assignment in Colombia.”

  “South Carolina? Missouri?” I guessed.

  “Try South America.”

  “Colombia… the country.”

  “The DEA has agents in Bogotá conducting mostly counternarcotics. Their primary mission is to keep the drug czars from using El Dorado International Airport as a waypoint for moving their drugs out of the country. They nab the mules.”

  I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms over my chest. “Why are we getting involved?”

  “The DEA is better at curtailing the drug trade, not solving murders. Also, Riggs’s death didn’t happen during a mission. He was found dead in Mitú, a small town located in the southeastern part of Colombia near the edge of the Amazon forest. We’re unsure as to why he was there.”

  “Maybe one of the cartels kidnapped him.”

  “They’re looking at all the possibilities.”

  “Don’t tell me they think he was working with the cartel.”

  “They’re not telling us anything. They want our take on it.”

  I sat there a little dumbfounded. Colombia? I had never been there. I knew nothing about that country. “Do we know anything else?”