“The charges. I categorized them. Counted them. Cross referenced. But until I had a weird name, it didn’t stick. Mastromarino.”
“She vanished on Easter Sunday.”
“Yes. So,” Carly said, “we had a charge from Angelina Ortega whose sister reported her missing last week. Made this Tuesday. But it was the only one. Maybe a fluke, a delayed billing.”
“She vanished a week before.”
“Yes. It was for a lot of drinks, with a big tip. But the signature wasn’t hers. Still, it could be explained away. But then I heard Noëlle Mastromarino’s name. Remembered seeing it. Found the charges. Two. One in March, before Easter. One three weeks ago. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know—”
“Stop beating yourself up. The important thing is you found it. We know now that someone’s using their cards. Someone at Crave.”
“Yeah.”
“Somebody kinda dumb.” Bud Cobb. Nobody at Crave could come closer to dumb than Cobb. Who, from time to time, carried huge trays of drinks to groups of women. “Fatally dumb.”
Athena came back on the line. “We’ve got the Sheriff’s office looking at it. You can stand down. Good work, Carl.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Stand down? Not goddam likely.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Friday, December 8
Tanner runs along the shoreline, feet pounding into the water-darkened sand, past women stooping to peer down at shells, past entwined lovers strolling, teens with boogie boards, sunburned snowbirds. He’s nearing mid-point, John’s Pass. He’s not stopping to watch the party boats, he’ll turn and head back south. All the while, thinking hard.
Assume the three of them are working together. Assume Green and Cobb, but mostly Green because that’s where the brains are, keeps an eye out for a particular kind of woman. Alone, or she exhibits certain habits or attributes they’re looking for. Most people are easy to read. Even easier to check out.
Assume Green scans their ID, probably gives it to Agostino to vet. Assume the check finds she’s a loner. Or there’s a combination of factors that put her on the short list.
Above all, she appears to be alone. No significant other, few close friends, no kids, no dog. She is ,bluntly put, an unsuccessful person. Or, like Noëlle, there's something special. Her sparkle, the way men react to her. A certain look.
Assume she’s approved, she makes the cut. She’s now a target. Then what?
Tanner veers around three long-legged teens swishing their way toward him, laughing and shrieking dramatically, hair streaming around their shoulders. The stark contrast between his dark thoughts and their bright presence takes his breath away.
Who makes the big move? Agostino has to make it. He’s the alpha predator, he despises women, he’d never pass up an opportunity to bring one down. He’s handsome, slick, even charismatic to the right woman. He charms her. Maybe offers her a drink, or a ride.
A drink. His specialty.
He uses drugs. Or he just punches her. He’d enjoy that. Most are stunned, don't fight back. While she’s recovering, he slaps tape on her mouth, snaps on hand- and ankle-cuffs, and puts her in the back of that essential SUV. Pulls the security shade over. It’s done. She’s all his, to do with as he wants.
His phone pings: Jan.
—Hello? Need to talk?
—Just one Q: what perfume did Noelle wear?
—Fave? Cashmere.
—Thank you. C U soon.
—Why?
But he’s put the phone in its waterproof pouch. He veers right, toes of his running shoes, charges into the water. Swims out a hundred yards in a brutal, chopping crawl. Floats a moment. A parachute is towed by, a laughing couple hanging from it. Tanner dives, bellowing, bubbles rising past his face. It doesn’t work. He can still see them, hear them.
Surfacing, he still smells the perfume. Cashmere. Delicate, distinctive.
Back on shore, he runs. Now he’s positive. He thinks...
There’s a time bomb in the back of Agostino’s car. He has to take her somewhere, quick, somewhere quiet and secluded. Pinellas County has over a million residents at this time of year, and there’s little unused land. Packed in among the sun-drenched palms are thousands of vacationing Europeans, tens of thousands of Canadians. Plus plain old Americans. Most people don’t notice much outside their immediate orbit, but a struggling, screaming woman would get anyone’s attention.
Where does Agostino take them? Tanner skirts around an Asian couple taking selfies. He has a line on the where: Omega’s checking out ownership of the property. But the certainty grows in him that the deserted, dog-patrolled parcel of land north of Crave is where Agostino goes. Something is there, something he didn’t get to in the aborted search.
He blocks what probably happens next, he can’t think about that right now. He likes women, he loves them, what they are, what they mean, how they move and smell and sound and even how they think. Everything.
He’s pushing past the Thunderbird resort, muscles burning, heart slamming, head buzzing with a sick certainty that he’s failed again, that he’s missed too much, he’s too late, that too many women have—
You are not omnipotent.
But it hurts like a fresh strike by one of those demented hags in the desert, and in the split second before he pushes the thoughts away he hears the screams. So many women...
Too many women. Agostino’s not an itinerant, he can’t vanish. In the end, they have to be silenced. And then what?
Disposing of a body isn’t as simple as most people think. Dead bodies are sloppy things, dead weight indeed, and nature starts the demolition process the instant life departs. The logistics of even moving a dead body are enormous. He can see Bud Cobb clumsily disposing of one, and getting caught. But he can’t see him trusted to dispose of Agostino’s leavings. Tanner wonders if they’re all alive, in Agostino’s custody.
He thinks of the Lost and Found box. No. Too many of them. So where, how, would he—
Too much evidence. Something, maybe even sexual trafficking, going on at Crave. Holden has it right.
It’s a punch in the mouth. He stumbles, corrects. Even with sweat pouring off him and the late morning sun blasting down, he’s chilled to the bone. He knows he’s right and he hates it. Athena’s quip, when she was selling this job, rings in his memory: it could be fun. He’s surrounded by carefree civilization and he wants to scream.
Somehow Agostino is passing them on. Somehow they’re picked up, or maybe he takes them. No. Has to be a neutral place where nobody can be identified by their surroundings. Or there’s a guy on the dark internet advertising he’ll deliver anything anywhere for the right price. The country’s so big, so busy, so self-involved, who’d notice? Money changes hands – how much for a woman’s life? – and she’s gone.
Is Richie Agostino selling the women?
***
Dusk. A sooty sky accented by lurid pink streaks. Tanner in black; it felt like mourning. How can he walk into Crave? As if he knew nothing? How to watch Green shuffle in and out of the back hall and not corner him and rip him to shreds? Bud Cobb, too, with his empty smile and his loaded cocktail tray. No less guilty because he was nearly a moron.
Exhaustion swept him. How could he not tell every woman who’d walk through the door tonight that she was risking her life?
The police should be there soon. The Omega team, two men and a woman, plus stakeouts, would arrive in sixty minutes. He couldn’t wait for that long, he’d go nuts. And if he was alone with Agostino, he might put the sick fucker in the ground.
He pulled into the lot/ Agostino’s SUV was not in its usual place. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he with Cynthia Voight? Was she even still alive? She wasn’t home; Tanner had gone by.
Inside Crave, Green slouched against the bar, pouchy eyes flickering, a fat lizard on a rock waiting for something tasty to come by. Mike the bartender decapitated lemons, the eleven-inch chef’s knife snapping down violently.
Tanner nodded to ever
yone, walked into the stale-smelling showroom, stopped. There were several dozen after-work patrons there but for Tanner it was filled with ghosts.
Why was he here? Why the hell wasn’t he out…where? He knew where to start. He pulled out his phone, found Jan’s number.
—do NOT come to Crave tonight
He sent it before thinking and mumbled a curse. She’d know what the message hinted, she’d make a beeline. He gave it another try.
—see you at the beach?
No answer. He tried calling, it went to the no-mailbox announcement. He disconnected ready to punch something.
This wasn’t where he should be. He’d text Athena when he’d recced. He turned, walked out. Green shouted something, but he didn’t answer.
***
Tanner ignored the blare of horns as he cornered onto the narrower road. This time the surface was dry, the post-sunset sky pale through the barely-leafed branches. A mile down, he eased onto the track past the worn trailers. The two dogs trotted out, tongues lolling, tails low.
He blew the horn, three sharp, short blasts. Moments later, the tall, skinny guy walked out from between a pair of containers and stopped ten feet away. No shotgun. Tanner rolled down his window. The air was rank with chemicals. The man squinted.
“You back again? Thought I tole you to stay gone.”
“Always have had trouble following orders. I’d like you to leash your dogs tonight.”
The man considered for a long moment. “Nope. Can’t do that. Got a deal with a guy to let them run. He pays good.”
“What’s he give you?”
“Hunnert a week.” He thought a minute. “Per dog.”
“How about a hunnert a night?” He held out two Franklins.
“Sure. Ends at midnight, though.” He produced an ain’t-I-clever grin, took the bills and whistled to the dogs. The trio headed for a Han-Jin container.
“Hey,” Tanner called. “I see them before midnight, all bets are off.”
“You won’t see them.”
Probably off to call the guy who gave him a hunnert a week. Per dog. Dousing the car lights, Tanner drove through the huddle of old trailers and weathered containers.
His too-brief recce had given him a rough idea of the land. Unless someone had strewn bear traps in the scrub, he was clear for a short time. With the dogs away for – who knew? maybe the hunnert guy would up the ante – an undetermined period, he’d have to move fast. He pulled the car into an overgrown area shadowed by Brazilian peppers.
In better circumstances, he’d have parked a mile away and worked his way in. In better circumstances, he’d have figured it all out sooner. And in ideal circumstances, some three hundred pound linebacker would long ago have snapped Agostino’s spine.
His phone vibrated: Omega. “Tanner.”
“Denton called. We’ve been fired,” Athena said.
“Hell we have.”
“You are,” she said, “off the job. On your own. You have no standing in any matter involving Crave. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
“We’ve got your coordinates. Team’s on the way. Forty minutes.”
Something moved on the edge of his vision. “I'm at that field. Call you in ten.”
“Anything you need, say it.”
“Roger. Out.”
The something was a large cat, leaping through the weeds. Tanner tucked the phone away and walked along the edge of the field. Dead twigs everywhere. Impossible to be quiet. Something snapped off to his right and he sank down, head swiveling. A large, pale, dog stood at the far end of the open space. No: a coyote. It turned away and oozed back into the brush.
The shadows deepened. Under the acres of trees, the darkness was absolute. The density above, and the many ancient branches touching the ground, had kept light, and undergrowth, away. Faint paths wandered through the heavy deposit of dead leaves: animal trails.
He slipped from tree to massive tree, the leafy ground rising near the trunks. He had no idea what he was looking for. Gnarled roots thrust up, almost covered with masses of old acorns that crunched and rolled beneath his shoes. The wood seemed undisturbed. Nothing man-made, only the ancient trees, a few saplings. He turned to his right, where a stand of bamboo had somehow flourished. A muffled thump came from the field. He glanced in that direction. Damn.
Silhouetted against flames, the outline of a car. As he watched, the fire soared past the Infinity’s roof. The spare ammunition in the glove box ought to entertain the onlookers.
His skin suddenly itched. He threw himself sideways at the same moment the leaves at his feet exploded. Another shot chipped bark onto him as he rolled behind the nearest trunk. The shooter had to have a night vision scope. And a silencer. But a pro should’ve blown his head all over the lovely forest floor with the first bullet. An amateur? In this country, even amateurs could have professional equipment.
Another shot. A pause. One more, into a tree less than a foot away. Too close.
His car exploded, spewing flame. The grass around it caught. Beyond the fire, lights had come on in the trailers. How many shots in your back yard before you decided enough was enough and called the sheriff? Or, more likely given the probable meth lab, decided Florida’s Stand Your Ground law was on your side and took things into your own hands?
For option one, probably never. He’d bet his retirement that the guy with the shotgun knew how to use it. Yes for option two.
Another shot, the debris jumping in a new direction. The shooter was moving. And so was Tanner, elbowing through the debris. He set a personal best low-crawling toward the bamboo, keeping the trees in the probable line of fire.
Another shot, lighter caliber. And another, same new weapon. A new player? Who or what was the target? Sirens shrieked. He glanced toward the road, saw strobing lights coming from both directions.
He rolled over, pulled his phone out, risked swiping it. Two bars. Before he punched up Omega, he noticed the text icon. Jan.
—im here where r u
—answer me Carl
—dammit where r u
Another silent shot into a tree trunk. Too close. No time to wonder where Jan was. Or update Omega. He shoved the phone away and headed west at the fastest crawl he could manage.
And bumped into something completely unexpected.
***
It was about a yard high, almost obscured by the bamboo grove and thick, pale mats of dead grass. Had he been walking, he mightn’t have noticed it.
The shooting had stopped. The car fire was dying but the grass fire had spread. Now it wasn’t entertainment. Meth was disastrously flammable. Residents rushed back and forth trying to keep fire from the ragged clutter of buildings. More sirens sounded. The stink of burnt plastics and chemicals tainted the air.
He crawled along the wall, looking to get solidly out of sight of the shooter. Or shooters. Instead, he came to the end and discovered the wall cornered right.
What was this?
Ten, fifteen feet. The smell of decay, of damp, crumbling cement. Another right turn, some kind of vine casting long tendrils. Thorns. Now he was on the other side of the structure from the shooter. He slid one hand up and ran his fingers over the edge.
Cement. Gritty with debris. Flat. A roof.
If it had a roof and walls, it had a door and maybe windows unless the fourth side was open like a lean-to. Unlikely. It had a stark, utilitarian feel to it. The adrenalin was leaching out of his system, and he felt unsteady even thought he was on his hands and knees, doing a version of the medium crawl so beloved of Drill Instructors.
He hoped the dog owner was too busy dealing with his meth lab to turn them loose.
The ground sloped down. The wall ended. Tanner swept his fingers around the corner, felt yet another wall. Saw a parallel wall maybe a yard from the first. The outer appeared to create a protective alleyway. For a long minute, he crouched, listening. His phone vibrated; he ignored it. Nothing else, no other sign of life except for distant shouts
as people worked on the brush fire, and the dying whine of sirens.
He was alone. But the building waited, as it had for maybe seventy years. He knew what it was. Had read about them. In the 1950s, at the height of the cold war, the government had encouraged their construction: a personal bomb shelter.
This was one of the survivors. Foot-thick walls, maybe. Originally, air filters, a generator. Food, sanitary facilities, medical supplies. Comics and coloring books and board games for those leisure moments when brains were functioning rationally. And firearms for when those outside weren’t acting rationally at all. Long gone, all of it, except for this reminder.
He squinted down the alleyway. Behind a clutter of old branches thrown to mislead the eye, steep steps descended to a door. Inset slightly, firmly shut, the door appeared solid, no window. Jackpot?
A faint whisper of sound changed the surrounding air. Tanner turned, saw the dark bulk of an automobile a hundred feet away, lights doused, coasting diagonally across his field of sight, but heading his way. The distant fire glinted against the car’s windows. An SUV. Tanner knew it well.
The SUV braked, the front doors opened. Richard Francis Agostino, against all odds, had arrived. He hadn’t come alone.
But he might as well have.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friday, December 8
Bud Cobb blundered forward like a bull elephant through a forest. Each hand held a large, spouted five-gallon gasoline can, obviously full. He paused to survey his surroundings with complacent indifference. Like any bull elephant, Cobb believed he had no real adversaries. His size and brute strength, his willingness to give and take punishment, would vanquish all threats. Cobb thought he was at the top of the food chain.
He’d soon find out that he was just chum.
Agostino at least used his brains. He appeared fifty feet from Cobb, out of a small patch of saplings, stepping with all the caution of a twelve-point buck during hunting season. He paused halfway to the shelter, sniffed the air as he scanned his surroundings.
The Omega Team: IT COULD BE FUN (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Carl Tanner Book 1) Page 11