by C A Devine
‘What’s with that fink thing?’
Charlie shrugged, ‘That’s how they talk.’
‘Find out where those cousins are and get onto the intel unit, tell them to contact the Met in London, see if we can ID this guy. I knew all that accent shit of yours would prove useful one day.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want to call Mommy yourself?’ Ten years of listening to it meant I didn’t even flinch.
The camera on the front of the BMW had caught it all. The limo had been picked up on its way out. And despite a couple of fuck-ups, the DEA managed to track The Baron to a private jet that flew direct to Pakistan. It was textbook surveillance. He didn’t appear to be imaginative enough to avoid it. A lot of the time it’s just plain ruthlessness that gets these guys where they are, and then they trip up on the covert and paranoia skills they need to survive.
He disappeared in the lawless borderland, but they ran slap bang into him again in Kabul on some undercover military drugs operation. They followed him from there to a compound in Helmand Province. Then they let him come all the way back. They wanted him arrested on US soil and tried in a US court. Terrorism may be hard to prove, but plain drug smuggling, the US has been prosecuting that for years.
Seven days later we all stood in a different – although it was hard to tell – empty warehouse, not far from the original. The same five minions stood waiting with the Shakermaker when we drove in, but there were three cars this time. More drones behind the blacked out windows then, at least another five. They weren’t taking any chances.
Again we had to wait. Again he came from the wrong direction. Again with the tracksuit, but this time he skipped out of the limo, his pearly whites plastered all over his face, ‘Time to do business, gentlemen.’ He pumped my hand, slapping me on the back. ‘We all ready to make some doe, bruva,’ he said shaking Charlie’s hand. I didn’t like his upbeat persona.
The driver slid out of the limo and slammed the door. I flinched and The Baron laughed. The driver, once again, positioned the cap on his head before stepping around to the back of the vehicle. He popped the trunk and extracted a black leather briefcase. He handed it to a flunky who scurried across the warehouse and laid it on the Shakermaker’s arms. The Baron clicked it open. This time it was full of one-key bags. Charlie opened the trunk of the BMW and lifted out two shiny metal briefcases full of greenbacks. We handed over our cases; they handed over theirs. We tested the powder; they counted the bills. We all shook. And it was all filmed by the BMW’s built-in camera. We stepped back to our car and slid in; they got in theirs and all four vehicles gunned their engines. I did a 180-turn and headed out the rear doors.
The DEA and NYPD had been watching. They started moving in from their positions as we pulled out. We sped around to the front of the building. The Baron’s convoy was in sight, the two Towncars, then the limo, then the Mercedes pulling up the rear. The Feds and the cops were coming at them head on, lights flashing, sirens blaring. They could only see to the front and left; we could see to the back and left. The convoy screeched to a halt, henchmen jumping from the cars, weapons drawn. Most dived for the ground pointing weapons up. The goons numbered twelve, but the cops numbered forty and they spread their vehicles out in a web under a hail of bullet fire.
The henchmen did nothing to escape, nothing to gain ground. They just fired. The limo doors on the left side didn’t open.
‘He’s getting away on the other side,’ I said to Charlie.
‘What?’
‘It’s a blind spot. They’re laying down cover for The Baron. They knew.’
‘How?’ It didn’t require an answer. I kicked the car into gear and shot the Beemer across the rough ground in front of the warehouse. We bumped over the holes until we were within 20 yards of the convoy, when one goon turned and spotted us. He shouted to the others, but they couldn’t hear through the explosion of weapon-fire. Charlie cracked his window and took out the lone shooter. He dropped.
I stepped on the gas, pulling around behind the back of the convoy and up the side of the limo, until we were within sight of the open back door. The guns turned on us as we drove by. I could see it empty inside. The Baron and the Shakermaker were gone. I gunned the car away from the scene, in the only direction they could have run. The cops were closing their web, the henchmen were running out of bullets. We bumped up and down, but we could see nothing.
‘They couldn’t have gone far, they hadn’t much time,’ Charlie said.
‘The sewer,’ I spun the car around looking for the manhole cover.
‘What?’
‘The sewer. It’s the only place they could have gone.’ I spotted the cover, floored the gas, screeched to a halt and dived out. I dragged off the manhole cover and stuck my head down. I jumped back when I heard the rattle of gunfire.
A DEA car pulled up beside us and Agents David and Early jumped out. ‘They’re in the sewers.’ Agent David stuck her head in and retreated when again there was gunfire. She shoved in her gun and fired off a few rounds. This time no shots were returned. She lowered her head in again. Silence.
‘I’m going in,’ she grabbed the ladder. She was welcome to go first, as far as I was concerned. She slid down and I swung in after her.
‘Here,’ Charlie shouted from above. I looked up and he dropped a flashlight down the hole, then he scurried in after us, with Agent Early bringing up the rear. It smelled dank and rotten; the walls dripped. I was up to my ankles in putrid liquid. I wasn’t sure my 3000-dollar boots would survive. The DEA took the lead. There was no noise up ahead, but there was only one long passage, and one way they could have gone. We swept swiftly down the passage, our guns straight out ready to fire. We jogged an eternal five minutes; the only sound our splashing feet. We hit a split in the tunnel. Agent David and I took the left; Charlie and Early, the right. We had gone maybe 100 yards in when we heard a barrage of shots. We turned and fled back, guns and flashlights first.
At the head of the other tunnel, there was no sound. We shouted, but nothing. They couldn’t be more than 100 yards in.
We tread slowly, each footstep splashing in the scummy water, but still no sound from the tunnel ahead. We kept moving, and were about 50 yards in when I heard the moan. A low hollow moan. My heart sank. My new partner and I looked at each other; she was thinking the same thing, I could see it in her face. Please God don’t let it be my partner. We were about 10 yards away when the light picked up the bodies. Three bodies, Charlie, Early and the Shakermaker floated in a sea of wet greenbacks. I skidded onto my knees and lifted Charlie’s head onto my lap. His body was twitching; his eyes were already losing focus. ‘Charlie, look at me. Look at me.’
*
The taskforce launched a massive manhunt, but The Baron was gone with half the cash. And Charlie was dead.
We worked the henchmen day after day until one broke. They knew we were coming; their orders had been to cover The Baron till he got away, then they didn’t care what they did.
Two years of my life, and we had been so close. We apprehended everyone except The Baron. So Charlie and I effectively did stop the flow into the city.
It was the biggest narcotics operation New York had seen in years, and the arrests caused a media storm. All would be tried based on my testimony and the evidence gathered from the undercover operation. The DEA didn’t look so hot with The Baron escaping, but Charlie and I were hailed as heroes. The spotlight was focused on me, simply because I was still alive.
A month after the raid, a file lands on my desk with a puzzling satellite photo of bombed-out buildings surrounded by scorched fields. Latitude and longitude were printed in the corner. A little online time and a couple of calls later confirmed that it was The Baron’s compound. Who was responsible? My government? The Afghans? Nobody much cared.
I went back to my life. After more than two years undercover, I got my stuff out of storage at my parents, rented a room from Marcus and tried to return to normal. It was all supposed to get better, ju
st give it time, Dad had said. But I still couldn’t sleep for more than two hours at a time, still couldn’t sleep without my gun under my pillow. And then it all just got much, much worse.
26
The Deadliest Temptation (Day 7)
Just five more minutes is the sailor’s deadliest temptation. If you’re head to wind, you can feel it coming at you, but if the wind is behind you, the world radiates calm. You need to make the call to reduce the sail area. If you wait till you have to, it’s already too late. And this here is the dilemma: if you are running before a storm, your course made good is possibly better than you make at any other time. So, just five more minutes.
It was day seven and we were powering along. The forecast on Navtex was force five to eight and it was coming up behind us fast. We could’ve plotted a course to the north of it, but that was a major diversion. We had already sailed around two storms, but in both cases our course was only skirting the edge so it wasn’t much of a deviation. We both agreed it wasn’t worth the loss of progress for a force five to eight; we might spend an uncomfortable night, but we’d survive it.
‘We need to reef,’ I called as I stepped down through the hatch. Everything was fine up on deck, but I could see heavy clouds in the distance.
She wasn’t in the main cabin and didn’t answer. ‘Max,’ I called, ‘where are you?’ I walked back through the galley towards the stern and into the aft cabin. The door to the head was pinned open. Max stood topless with her back to the mirror. Her eyes peered over her shoulder as she pried the last corner of the dressing from her skin.
‘No, baby, don’t,’ I lunged towards her as it fell.
She shoved me away with a growl. She stepped back into position. She frowned, looking at the hash of cuts, dragging at it with her fingers. My treatment was working, the wound had scabbed cleanly, making the cuts stand out in a dark red. ‘He really went to work on me, didn’t he?’ her brow furrowed and she poked at it again. Her eyes flashed, her brain finally processing the reflection. The colour drained from her face. Her jaw dropped open and she dragged her hand to her mouth to stifle a scream that didn’t come. She looked up at me, her eyes liquid. Her body shook. I sprang forward and caught her as she went down.
We were on the floor, her face in my chest. She was gasping quick shallow breaths, her lungs wheezing. She clung to me, her shudders racking my body. ‘Breathe, baby, breathe,’ I murmured. She burrowed further into me. I couldn’t tell her it was okay. It wasn’t. I laid one arm around her shoulders and slid another around her lower back. I needed to hold her tight, for me. ‘He doesn’t have you now, I have you,’ I rocked her and shushed her. ‘I have you now and no-one’s going to take you away again. I promise, shh, shh,’ I whispered close into her ear. ‘I promise.’ I closed my eyes and held her for a long time.
We were thrown from our embrace when the boat heeled violently to port. ‘The storm,’ Max reacted first. She scrambled up out of my grasp, through the cabin door, and towards the companionway. I was behind her, using the grab rails to help me along.
If your boat is heeled, you have to work with the angle of the hull to haul yourself along. Don’t try to convince yourself the floor is flat.
The boat dived forward and I was hurled into Max. She shoved me away then jumped into the forward head, appearing back a second later with the wet weather gear. She threw mine at me just as ocean poured in through the main hatch.
‘We need to get out there and close this up.’ She jammed her legs into the pants, one then another. She was zipping her jacket as I was still fumbling with the bulky salopettes. ‘When we get out there,’ she said, snapping into her life jacket, ‘you clip onto the strong point just outside the hatch and do as I say. Is that clear?’ Okay, so at least the unresolved saga of who was the Captain had finally been put to bed. She tossed me a man overboard tag, grabbed a winch handle and swung up and out the hatch into the black night.
I struggled into my life jacket and slipped the tag on my wrist. I threw myself across the cabin to the chart table, grabbed the washboard and pulled myself up the ladder. A wave thundered down on me just as I reached the top. My feet slipped from the wooden rung. I clenched the grab rails at the top of the hatch. My arm muscles strained as I pulled my feet back onto the rungs.
‘Close it up,’ she shouted. ‘Quick as you can.’ My old sailing instructor used to say that after every instruction, “Quick as you can now.” It made me smile. I clipped myself to the strongpoint, spun around, slammed the washboard into the companionway and dragged the hatch lid closed.
Max stood at the helm checking the instruments. ‘You pull the genny in first, I’ll control the sheet.’ Not trusting my own strength to haul it in, I grabbed the line and wrapped three turns around the winch. I leaned over to starboard. The hull was heeled so far that, in real terms, I was standing up straight. Max picked up the port sheet, preparing to pull it out of the winch tail. ‘On three,’ she shouted. ‘One, two, three.’ I bent at my knees and pulled, letting my stomach muscles take the strain. I drew it in, hand over hand over hand. The heeling began to subside. I kept my eyes fixed on the foresail until it had shrunk to one third. ‘Stop,’ Max wrapped her sheet back into the self-tailer, pushed in the winch handle and turned, tightening up the sail.
‘The mainsail,’ she shouted, without breaking for breath. I grabbed the roller lines and pulled the right. It sprang back. The sail didn’t budge. I tugged again. Nothing moved; the force bearing down on the sail was too strong. I flexed my biceps and yanked on the line; it slipped from the control winch at the mast. ‘Fucking useless rolling mains,’ Max shouted. ‘I’ll go up front and winch it in.’
‘I’ll go,’ I shouted.
‘Oh be quiet, check our course, make sure the autopilot isn’t straining. And start the motor; a little engine is better in this situation. This isn’t an exercise in proving our sailing prowess.’ She unhooked from the strongpoint, threw her arm over to the starboard side and clipped onto the safety line. She swung out and crabbed along the side deck. A wave hurtled down on top of her, but she didn’t slow. At the mast, she pulled out the winch handle, banged it in and started turning.
We dived forward down a wave. The autopilot was swinging the rudder back and forth trying to keep course. The mast groaned under the pressure.
Max was trying to winch in the rolling mechanism, but it wasn’t moving. She crabbed back to the cockpit. ‘We left it too late. The wind is too strong. Let the halyard go; we’ll worry about it after the storm.’
I leant over the coach roof and prised the clutch, but it was jammed tight. I threw both arms forward and got a finger from each under the lever. I pushed up. It gave a millimetre, then another, and snapped back. The line slithered out, cracking off the fibreglass. The sail began to drop, whipping back and forth as wind competed with gravity. The boat began to level off. The loose halyard snaked around in violent gusts high up in the air. Speckles of water from the approaching rain bounced off my face as I watched. The motion of the sail jack-knifed the boat port to starboard. I had to throw my body back and forth to stay on my feet. It was taking forever to fall. I squinted back up through the now-pouring rain. The sail was stalled at the spreaders, lashing back and forth in the gale. The halyard was caught around the radar 30-foot up the mast.
‘I’ll have to go up and cut it,’ Max said.
‘I’ll go,’ I roared back.
No, I’m lighter and more experienced.’
‘I don’t know where the bosun’s chair is.’ But she was way ahead of me. She flung open the locker, grabbed a line and a knife. She crouched in the corner of the cockpit out of the worst of the wind. She furiously tied a double bowline and within a minute, she was sitting in a rigged bosun’s chair. I unhooked the extra line from the back of the boom and clipped it onto her temporary harness. She passed me the winch handle and stuffed the knife in her pocket.
‘Throw out the storm anchors. They might steady us a bit,’ she shouted as she crabbed back up front.
At the mast she turned back and gave me the thumbs up. I turned the winch and she flew up into the air, scrabbling to keep hold of the pole.
The mast groaned for a second time. Not good; we had to sort this quickly. Being dismasted out in the ocean was second only to sinking. It could come thundering down on the coach roof and cause serious damage – not to mention, kill us both. I kept winching until I had Max in line with the spreaders.
The mainsail hit the deck. I jumped forward and unshackled it from the back of the boom. I dragged the sail towards the stern locker, threw it open and stuffed armfuls of material into the big open space. I slammed the top down shut, silent in the deafening roar. I turned back, grabbed the line to the bosun’s chair and looked up. Max stood like a trapeze artist on the taught bowline, her arms stretched straight out from her sides. I stared horrified, mesmerised. She lifted her arms high above her head, pointing to heaven. She looked angelic. I saw her knees bend, then she was in the air executing a perfect dive from 30-foot up.
She hit the water, gliding under. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I was so stupid.
I snapped to attention, kicking the engine into neutral. I grabbed the now quiet halyard from the deck. I cleated it off on one side and looped a bowline through my life jacket with the other. I unhooked my safety line and dived into the deepest blue. Not the sanest thing in the world, but that line was blurring more and more of late.
The freezing water shot pain through my body. I fought to catch my breath. Max’s MOB bracelet was screaming and flashing. I swam towards the light, praying to God that she didn’t remove it, or her life jacket. I pulled through the water hindered by wet weather gear. I dragged my arms one stroke after the other, getting nowhere. I didn’t want to inflate my life jacket and slow myself down more, but I was being dragged under.