Escape Clause
Page 33
At first, it was a little hard to find information on the relatively small but hardworking federal agency. Unfortunately, many people associated them with the events in Waco, Texas, with the Branch Dividians. But all the ATF had done was make a good criminal case against several of the group’s members. Things didn’t go as planned, and the rest played out on national TV for months. But if no one ever broke the law, there would be no risk for law enforcement. Sometimes people forgot that.
After the terror attacks in 2001, the various bureaucrats decided that a reorganization of federal agencies was needed. In the shake up, where U.S. Customs and Immigration merged under Homeland Security, the ATF was moved from the Treasury Department to the Department of Justice. Now, when he spent his time in his office near the other agencies, he was convinced he’d made the right decision.
In his room, as he sat on the edge of his bed, he sighed out his fatigue and glanced at the four books stacked on his night table. He was an avid reader. On his night table, he had a Shelby Foote book on the Civil War he had already read twice, a biography of Robert E. Lee, Jeff Shaara’s classic Gods and Generals, and The Plot Against America by Philip Roth. He figured he’d make another trip to the library if he had more nights like the last one.
After a shower, he changed into shorts and a T-shirt and started to rummage through the refrigerator. Aside from his brother’s Slim-Fast and two expired yogurts, he was out of luck. As he considered his options, he heard Frank’s heavy footsteps on the outside stairs that led to the apartment.
“Hey, Rocket, when’d you get home?”
“Little while ago.”
“Hungry?”
Duarte shrugged.
“Ma’s got ropa vieja over rice.”
“Really?” Then he caught himself.
“Go ahead. We don’t live with them anymore. We can have a meal with our parents.”
“Frank, we live over their garage. You eat breakfast and dinner there. It’s like we never left home.”
“Bullshit. You left in the army, and I went away to school.”
“Then we moved back.”
“So. No one is forcing you to stay.”
Duarte thought about that. On the other hand, he had no reason to leave either. It wasn’t like he had his own family, and living here allowed him to sock away some cash.
Frank said, “Go ahead, think of it as a favor to Ma.”
Duarte lingered over his second dessert. After the main dish and salad, plantains, soup and bread, he had tried the tiramisu and now the chocolate cake. He didn’t want to offend his ma.
His father sipped his coffee, careful to avoid the extravagant desserts his wife made every night. Duarte’s father was convinced she was trying to put him in an early grave by offering up the various delicacies and sweets.
His father cut his eyes to Duarte. “You do a good job today?”
“Yes, sir.”
The old man nodded. He had a slight accent after forty years of life in this same house off Parker Avenue in West Palm Beach, Florida. It was an elegant accent. He rarely spoke Spanish, and had, since his arrival in Miami from Paraguay in the sixties, taken English class after English class, followed by literature classes. Cesar Duarte was probably the best-read plumber in Palm Beach County.
“I hope your brother works as hard.”
“Frank works hard, Pop.”
“I guess as hard as lawyers can work.”
Duarte shrugged.
His ma came from the kitchen with a plate of food wrapped in plastic. “This is for tonight, Alex, when you get hungry again.” She placed it next to him and then leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “You need to keep up your strength.”
“Thanks, Ma.” He took the food, cleaned his place and after repeated good-byes to his ma and a nod to his pop was off to his apartment over the garage.
He was dreaming of fire, as he often did in his short fits of sleep, when his cell phone rang from his nightstand. He was instantly awake and had the small Nextel open. “Duarte.”
“Rocket,” said his supervisor. “There’s been some kind of explosion. We need you to check it out.”
“Where?”
“A labor camp off U.S. 27.”
Duarte sat up, “The one where we found the fugitive today?”
“Don’t know. I was told it’s out near Belle Glade. Bailey Brothers farm.”
“On the way, boss.”
Before Duarte could hang up, his supervisor said, “Hey, Rocket.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t know if it means anything to you but I was told from above to put you on this.”
“Really?”
“You must be doin’ something right for them to even take notice.”
“Probably just my background.”
“Never know. Do a good job.”
“Count on it, boss.”
It was after three in the morning when Duarte slowed his Taurus as he approached the sprawling labor camp off the highway. Even from the road, he could see the crime scene tape. The old Mustang that Duarte had chased Salez around that afternoon seemed to be the center of the destruction. The car was turned on its side, with the trunk lid twisted at an odd angle and the driver’s-side door missing completely. There were still two fire engines in the lot, a half-dozen Palm Beach County Sheriff’s vehicles, with their blue lights spinning, and several unmarked cars. Duarte showed the deputy at the front gate his ATF credentials. The uniformed cop just nodded toward a group of seven or eight people listening to a briefing.
Duarte parked and headed toward a large black woman speaking in a loud voice at the center of the group. She clearly had everyone’s attention and spoke with authority.
“Looks professional.We figured the two corpses found over there”—she pointed a thick finger toward the mangled row of cars—“detonated the device by opening the Mustang’s door.We’re trying to determine if one of ’em was the intended target.”
Duarte looked over his shoulder at the twisted cars. Then, as he turned back to the briefing, he saw a woman crying, as she leaned against the closest fire engine. Her dark hair splayed out at odd angles, and her eyes were puffy and red. A beefy firefighter stood next to her, holding a box of tissues and looking like he’d rather be sleeping. Duarte knew the feeling, but just the idea of someone from headquarters asking for him personally on a case gave him energy. After a moment, Duarte recognized her as the woman who pushed Salez out of the trailer earlier that day, and that in addition to crying he noted that she wore a long terry cloth robe.
He turned back to the woman addressing the group. The woman looked back at Duarte. “I know you’re a cop or the deputy wouldn’t have let you in. What’s your name?”
“Alex Duarte, ATF.”
“Alex, I’m Annette Cutter. I’m the captain of the sheriff’s substation here. You an explosives guy or just an agent?”
“Both.”
The woman cut through the crowd. “Good, come with me.” She was nearly as tall as Duarte, with a few extra pounds on an already-wide frame. She wrapped a meaty arm around Duarte’s shoulder. He could tell she had a positive way of dealing with people and got what she wanted. “We got us a mess over here.”
“I heard what happened as I walked up.”
“We got the two near the car dead, another man who was standing about thirty feet away killed by the blast and a kid who had snuck out of his mama’s trailer killed by a freak shrapnel piece about a hundred feet away.”
That caused Duarte to freeze. His stomach tightened and he asked, “Where’d he get hit?”
“Head. Dead instantly. A real shame.”
Duarte swallowed hard, thinking about his own experiences blowing targets in and around Bosnia. He now understood the sobbing woman at the fire engine.
Duarte recovered slightly and asked, “What type of explosive? Black powder?”
“C-4.”
Duarte looked at the woman. “You sure, Captain?”
“That�
�s what my bomb techs tell me. I’m no expert. I’m an administrator now. But they know their business.”
“It’s just unusual to find something like C-4 . . .” He didn’t finish his thought.
“In a shithole like this? I know, my guys said the same thing. We’ve never seen it either.”
Duarte nodded, taking in all the information. He appreciated a boss that admitted she didn’t know everything. There were politics and turf wars in police work, but the agents of the Federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms weren’t usually a part of them. The cops liked it when ATF agents showed up. He didn’t want to change that. He just doubted that any local sheriff’s bomb tech had more practical experience with C-4 than he did.
Captain Cutter pointed out to the fields surrounding the camp. “A lot of the residents fled into the fields. They don’t want to talk to the cops.” She yawned. “I’m too old to be out this time of night. I should be in a warm bed with my husband.”
Duarte nodded.
“You have someone warm to snuggle up with too?” asked the captain.
“No, ma’am.”
“Really? Good-looking boy like you should have women lined up.”
Duarte shrugged, then looked up to see the sobbing woman again. He had to look away from her, give her some privacy. He also knew he had to talk to Alberto Salez right away about why someone wanted to blow him up. He didn’t need to share this with the local cops. Not yet. This could be his ticket up the ladder.
James O. Born is a former U.S. drug agent and has been a special agent with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement (FDLE) since 1990. His experience ranges from undercover assignments to complex conspiracy investigations. He is a ten-year veteran of the FDLE special operations team.
His newest novel, Field of Fire, follows an ATF investigation, which leads agent Alex Duarte into a dangerous web of deceit.