Because of the way I was laying on the counter, Amber had to stand between my legs and she was bent down close to my left side. At that moment Mr. Silva and his associate walked in, guns drawn, and surveyed the situation. Silva’s eyes darted between the bodies, Q, and Mr. Fielding, quickly analyzing the situation. Then he cocked an eyebrow in my direction. From their angle what Amber was doing must have looked like something quite different.
“Well, this is awkward,” I offered weakly.
Amber, who had not heard them come in, looked up to see the newcomers.
“Looks like you’re going to live,” she said icily. “I nearly broke my neck getting to you!” she hissed. Then she stopped, considered the situation, and decided not to get into it now but it was pretty obvious we would be having that discussion later. She gave our guests a courtesy dose of eye daggers, grabbed her bag and stomped out, not quite ripping the door off the hinges pulling it closed behind her.
“Senorita esta poco enfadado,” Manuel Silva observed in Spanish.
“Muy enfadado,” I corrected. “But that’s my problem to deal with,” I said in English.
I pulled myself up painfully and stood up, still holding my side but at least I could breathe now. Silva and his associate holstered their weapons.
“As we agreed,” I began, tossing him the keys to the armored truck. “The bonds are in the back of the armored car across the street, minus the fee we agreed on. Go ahead and take the truck to the airport,” I suggested. “It’ll be easier to hide dipshit there and no one ever searches an armored car.”
Mr. Fielding, finally regaining his composure, now looked befuddled. “What are you talking about?”
“Our fee, Mr. Fielding,” I explained. “In exchange for a somewhat reduced rate on our recovery fee, we agreed to hand you over so you could make up the difference out of your personal funds. There will be some incidental expenses added in, I’m sure. Interest, collection costs….” I let the list trail off.
Despite the fact he was still covered with dried blood and he had just seen his wife gunned down, Elliott Fielding still managed to look indignant. “That’s insane,” he sputtered.
“That’s business, Mr. Fielding,” I assured him. “Your business partners want their money back, we want to get paid, and you want to live to see the sunrise. It’s a win-win-win from where I stand.”
It was apparent that Elliott Fielding did not see things from the same winning perspective.
“Come on, you can afford it,” I cajoled. “My business associate gave Mr. Silva here a complete rundown of all your personal assets. Around $43 million in round numbers and you’ll eventually inherit your late wife’s estate,” I pointed out, gesturing to the body on the floor. “That’s another $19 million or so, if you liquidate the horses and the ranch.”
The disbelief was strong in this one, even as Mr. Silva’s associate pulled him to his feet and used a pair of flexi cuffs to secure his bloody hands in front of him. The goon frowned in distaste at the blood on his fingers and Q handed him a handkerchief. It was probably a good thing that the sedative we gave the associate at the first meet also wiped his short-term memory of the events earlier in the day.
“You satisfied with this?” I asked Silva, motioning to the bodies on the floor.
“Si,” he agreed. “What about him?” he nodded at Donnie Meadows, still shaken up from shooting his wife.
“Doesn’t know the details,” I assured him. “Provided you make the call as we agreed, we’ll take care of this mess and resolve the issues with the police.”
It was clear he would have been happier had Don Meadows not been left alive but the outcome was so much in his favor that prudence won out over concern about one minor loose end.
“Very well, but if he ever talks…”
“He won’t” I assured him. “He’s smarter than that.”
He nodded and turned to go, the associate hauled Mr. Fielding to his feet and half pushed, half carried him out the door.
In all the excitement and probably because our ears would all be ringing for a week, we had missed the backup alarm of the uniform truck.
“Ola!” Momma Maria greeted us as she wheeled in with her laundry cart full of cleaning supplies.
“Hello, Momma,” I said warmly, careful to give her a side on the side that hadn’t been shot.
“You’re hurt,” she observed with a frown.
“I’m fine, Momma,” I reassured her. “Not so good for our friends, though.”
She frowned at the bodies. “So pretty,” she mused, shaking her head. “Such a shame. Tres!” she yelled at her nephew standing in the door, who then sprinted back to the truck to fetch two more laundry carts.
“You go. Momma fix,” she said with her warm, grandmotherly smile.
V would stay on station to make sure no one interrupted Momma Maria until their work was done. A uniform truck picking up this late was unusual but not unheard of either. There was no one around to hear the shots, muffled inside the office walls. There wouldn’t be any trouble.
“I bruised my elbow,” Amber complained. “All because some asshole let me think they were shot! Goddamn,” she swore, remembering her earpiece. There was a scratching, fumbling sound followed by wind noise and the unmistakable swallowing sound of the earpiece hitting the water.
The Searay roared off into the night with Amber extending me the middle finger salute as the boat whizzed by the marina windows and disappeared down the channel, the waves lapping against the dock.
“Somebody’s not getting any tonight,” Deek observed.
“And for a change it’s not just you,” V taunted.
Q laughed and even I started to chuckle until the stabbing pain in my side reminded me laughing was a really bad idea.
I looked at Donnie Meadows, still leaning back against the wall. “Don, you okay?” I asked.
He nodded meekly.
“Anyone else hungry?” I asked. It had been a long night for all of us. “I could really use some dinner.”
We took the van to our favorite Thai restaurant. Because we were still in the company of a wanted felon we asked for a private room in the back. The owner, an older man who embodied all the legendary kindness of the Thai people hustled us off to the back room and closed the screens behind us.
Don Meadows still looked withdrawn, not that I could blame him. I ordered tea for Q and I and a Thai iced coffee for Mr. Meadows.
“You should eat up,” I said to him gently after the waiter delivered our drinks. “This is the last good food you’re going to get for a while.”
A couple sips of Thai coffee got his color back. Two of them were enough to wire most people to the ceiling.
“I just killed my wife,” Don Meadows said, trying to come to grips with a sudden and unpleasant reality.
“And you saved my life in the process,” I pointed out.
“Was that on purpose?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Tactical order, Mr. Meadows. You know it is as well as we do. But it was always a possibility given the math.”
“Jesus, I just never thought it would come to--”
“They all had a chance to walk away,” I reminded him. I didn’t tell him the cartel would have hunted them down and slaughtered them, but only after several hours of hideous interrogation to make sure they hadn’t talked. “You should try the crispy duck in garlic sauce, it’s legendary.”
“They don’t get duck very often in prison,” Q observed. That brought Donnie Meadows back to the here and now.
“What?” he said, finally rejoining reality, already in progress.
“Our friends are wheels up,” Deek informed me. “And I want some Phad Thai,” he begged.
“Clear at the site,” V informed us, indicating Momma Maria finished up in near record time. “On my way, someone order me a seafood curry.”
We were interrupted by our waiter, so we ordered and asked for a Phad Thai to go out front and a seafood curry for a guest on their way. I
got the duck and Don Meadows finally settled on coconut prawns.
While we were waiting I explained what was going to happen next. “Once our lawyers call and confirm the insurance company is dropping the charges, they’ll come here to pick you up and take you in. You’re probably going to be in jail for a while,” I said honestly.
He nodded. “I was kinda hoping to avoid all that,” he said with a smile.
“I get that,” I sympathized, “but there’s still the matter of your partner. The lawyers will tell you what to say and not say. Believe me, walking in better than being hauled in.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” he said heavily.
“Look at it this way,” I explained. “The only two witnesses are dead and my associates are helping the legal team trace their finances. Once the cops figure out one of their own was involved--and they already suspect law enforcement involvement --they won’t be able to get rid of you fast enough.”
“What about you?” he asked.
“We have to disappear a while,” I informed him.
“Call coming in from Mack,” Deek advised. “You want me to take it here?”
“No, put it through,” I said to the air. “Excuse me, I have to take this,” I said to Don Meadows. My cell phone rang a few seconds later.
“Mackey, what’s going on?”
“Well, they stopped us,” he confirmed. “They did everything but take the boat apart but they weren’t really sure what they were looking for and didn’t find anything so they had to let us go but they’re still back there.”
I could picture Mack making his former co-workers squirm asking them for the reason behind the search and insisting on videotaping the entire affair so Fred and his engineers could review current marine search procedures.
“Slot up in Miami, Mack,” I instructed. “Hang out there until you hear from Fred.”
“You going somewhere?” he asked.
“Field trip,” I said evasively.
“Copy that,” Mack replied. “Okay, I’ll be in Miami until I hear from the mechanic.” The line faded out.
The room door open and V blew in, still dressed in her black fatigues, trailed by Amber. “Hello,” V said in greeting.
“I’m starving,” Amber informed us taking a seat next to me. “I’m still annoyed at someone around here,” she said to no one in particular.
“How are you doing?” V asked Don Meadows. Q and I exchanged a look. It was odd for V to take an interest in meeting any client, let alone talking to one. Talking to clients, being decent to Deek, this new V was making my head spin.
“She would have killed you,” V said without waiting for an answer. “I know that look.”
“My team was watching on the surveillance cameras,” I explained to Don Meadows. “This is V, she was your high cover tonight. You met our medic at the marina earlier.”
“Thanks,” he said quietly to both ladies.
“You did good,” V said flatly. That was the highest praise we’d ever heard V hand out to anyone.
Don Meadows regarded this strange woman for a moment. All scarred knuckles and one finger that was crooked after being broken one time and never set properly. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail vwhich she pulled loose and shook out.
“I need a drink,” Amber announced.
“I think that’s a great idea,” I agreed.
Q went to the door, where our waiter was standing just outside and passed him a drink order and Amber called after for an order of Pad Thai with tofu.
The food and drinks arrived at the same time and between the iced coffees, food and a couple drinks Don Meadows was slowly coming around. V was as close to animated as I’d ever seen her with another human being, by the end of dinner she talked him into doing shots and they were both laughing.
Things were just really starting to roll when the waiter walked in and whispered to me that there were men in business suits to see us.
“Your ride’s here,” I said to Don Meadows.
Instead of looking like a beat dog, he nodded, stood up and thanked us again for everything.
“You’re in good hands,” V assured him. “Just listen to the lawyers. They’ve gotten me out of some serious shit before.”
“All of us,” I filled in. “It’s going to suck for a while but you’ll be fine.”
A clean cut young man decidedly out of place in a shirt and tie materialized at the door. Without another word Donnie Meadows and headed out the door with the lawyers. It would be longer than any of us expected before we saw him again.
“That was really nice of you, V,” Q said when Don Meadows was out of earshot.
She shrugged, leaning back in her chair with yet another shot. “He’s a good soldier,” she concluded. “The first client we’ve had in years who wasn’t a pussy.”
“That’s true,” I agreed with a laugh, cut short by the still throbbing pain in my side.
“He saved your ass,” V reminded me.
“Also true,” I conceded. “We’re all going to Perth,” I informed her, changing the subject.
She thought about it for a moment. “Tempting,” she said. When V drank her accent started coming back thicker. “But I need to get back to the fazenda,” she said, using the Portuguese word for “estate”.
“When you taking off?” Q asked.
“Right now,” she said thumping the table, “if dipshit filed my flight plan.” V would have left her earpiece in the car with the rest of her gear.
“It’s filed,” Deek confirmed.
“Dipshit says you’re good to go,” I confirmed with a grin.
“Please don’t encourage her,” Deek begged. “I’m sending a car so she doesn’t get picked up for DUI. Two minutes.”
“He sent a car for you,” I informed her.
“I gotta pee,” she informed us. “Bye,” she punctuated that with a rare hug. She even stopped on the other side of the table to give Q a hug before heading out the door without so much as a look back.
“Well that’s the goddamndest thing,” Q marveled.
“Beats the hell out of me,” I agreed. V talking to a client--not just talking but drinking and joking around with a client and physical affection, all on the same night.
“Deek, you almost ready for the shutdown?” I asked.
“That’s affirmative,” Deek replied. “I’ve already pulled the plug on the sensitive stuff, there’s a crew coming in tomorrow to take down the rest.”
“The plane ready?”
“It will be by the time we get there,” Deek confirmed. “Took a little longer because they had to install the extended range fuel tanks.”
We’d need the extra fuel to make some of the ocean hops. We’d take the long way around, flying from Florida to L.A., Seattle, then to Hawaii, Shanghai, Tokyo and the long hop to Perth. We’d spend a couple days at each stop just because we could, longer if we were having fun. For us a travel destination was an eventuality more than an imperative.
“What about me?” Amber asked, finally cooling off from the incident at the marina.
“You, my dear, go home and get your nursing license. Then you’re off to Arizona, Virginia and Indianapolis for training.”
“And you’re going to Australia?” she asked. “Just like that?”
“’’Fraid so,” I soothed. “It would be...inconvenient to deal with the FBI right now. That’s what we pay the lawyers to do. You should be fine, no one tied you to us yet.”
“You’re still an asshole,” she reminded me, tossing back a shot. Then she kissed me and gave Q a hug on the way out.
“Two in one night,” Q observed. “I’m on a roll.”
“Yeah, just don’t look at me,” I deadpanned. “Your streak ends here.”
13
WE WERE IN Perth a good six weeks before we got word the Feds were finally cutting Donnie Meadows loose. They really tried to make something stick but the mysterious disappearance of his wife, her boss, the boss’ wife and a local police detective soon
sent the investigation in a different direction. The mystery really deepened when their cars turned up abandoned at a remote airport parking lot three weeks later. A week earlier the Broward County Sheriff found Detective Johansen’s abandoned boat when he failed to pay his rental fees at the boathouse. On board was a full load of fuel, enough food for month and $15,000 in cash.
Our South American friends kept their end of the deal and not only called but they credited Don Meadows as being instrumental in getting their property back. At a dead end there and with no witnesses to implicate him in any real crime the Feds ran out the clock trying to find a charge that would stick.
In the course of the investigation they picked him up and released him over half a dozen times. At each step our lawyers badgered, pushed, pleaded and did all the legal things we paid them to do with gusto.
He finally pleaded to a misdemeanor count of misprision of a felony, basically failure to report. The prevailing opinion of our legal team was they offered that just to keep from being sued. He was let go with a small fine and time served.
We took our time getting back and it was sultry morning in South Florida four months later when we found ourselves making our way down the dock on one of the private marinas in Boca Raton. I smelled the sea air and even Q said it was nice to be back.
It didn’t take us long to find the boat we were looking for, a custom 46 foot Outbound named Passion Flower. It was a beautiful craft, rigged for blue water with an impressive array of automation that would make her a breeze for two people to sail anywhere in the world. I guessed the price tag at right about what a three bedroom bungalow with a pool down by the Intracoastal would run. Don Meadows was just coming topside when he saw us coming up the dock.
The Rogue Horse Recovery: Book One of the Recovery and Marine Salvage Inc Series (Recovery and Marine Salvage, Inc.) Page 17