White Death

by Philip C. Baridon

  As prearranged, I slowed a little early to alert the law enforcement officers. A blacked-out plane is not easy to spot, and the engine sound trails behind by a few seconds. As promised, Marcus had driven up and brought Ortiz along to welcome me back. Both were sitting in the car near the only access road on the west side of the airport. With swamps to the south and Highway 1 to the east, they assumed any rip off attempt would come from the north or west. No Name One was concentrating his efforts in these areas.

  “That’s odd,” said Ortiz. “Sixkiller slowed down early. Normally, he likes to smoke in hot and do some stunt flying to set up for landing.”

  “He may not be fully recovered and returned to work a little early,” replied Sterling.

  “Yeah, probably.”

  At the same time, Number One banged breathlessly on the window of the car, startling both men.

  “This place is lousy with cops hiding in the brush.”

  “Get in,” said Marcus. “We’ll drive away slowly, as if we had other business to attend to.”

  Two state police officers behind the airport office observed them leaving.

  “Call the Major,” said one. “Tell him to ask Supervisory Special Agent Jamie Hudson what she wants us to do? Give chase or stay put.”

  Although Jamie watched them pulling onto the airport road, she could not communicate directly with the Major, only with other FBI agents, all of whom who had left their cars and gathered for the takedown. The frequency interoperability problem had paralyzed effective communications. She stepped out of her car, grabbed the nearest FDLE officer, and told him to tell the Major to pursue Sterling and Ortiz, now heading south on the highway.

  Precious minutes had passed, and Sterling’s car was making good progress south on Highway 1. Unaware of the problem, I was lining up for a landing on runway 9.

  “Call him again!”

  The radio screeched, “Hudson couldn’t talk to us. You dropped the ball. Give chase now! All other units rendezvous at the prearranged point after he finishes his taxi and shuts off the landing light.”

  I touched down, slowed, and used runway 32 to taxi back to the old hangar. When I saw the waiting truck, I began the shutdown sequence ending with killing the landing light.

  The takedown seemed to morph into chaos. The airport was lit up like a circus of red lights converging on our location. Tyrone’s two men appeared terror-stricken and made no attempt to flee or take cover.

  “Pilot, come out with your hands up,” blared the loudspeaker. I complied, was cuffed, and taken immediately to Jamie’s blacked-out cruiser.

  “All others on the ground, face down with hands on the top of your head.”

  After she uncuffed me, I started to congratulate Jamie, but she appeared somber.

  “Marcus escaped, probably with Ortiz and a No Name. He’s a high flight risk. Two troopers are in pursuit, and I already called Miami to stake out his office and house. Also, they are preparing a circular for the airline counters. I’m going to coordinate with the state police to put out an All-Points Bulletin on their car. Do you know the tag number?”

  I looked at the back of my Flight Log, and it was still legible. I also emphasized the heavily tinted windows.

  “Can you suggest anything else to do now?” asked Jamie.

  “No. Hopefully, the troopers will catch them. I don’t believe he’ll go to his home or office or flee now. He has at least two safe houses in Miami. My guess is he will just lay low for a while in one of them, and pay a charter jet to take him and Ortiz to George Town in Grand Cayman. The good news is the U.S. Attorney has his show drugs, and this load won’t be hitting the streets.”

  “True,” she said thoughtfully, “and Tyrone has been under surveillance and should be arrested by now.”

  “How are you feeling?” as she eyed me carefully.

  “Great, Nurse Jamie.”

  She smiled, kissed me on the forehead, and left to make sure onsite coordination was maintained to avoid later problems with the evidentiary chain of custody. I had to stay in the car. Despite an argument, a decision above my pay grade was to maintain the undercover status for now.

  Rage

  “That double-crossing, aboriginal, piece of shit has to be a fed or cop,” growled Sterling. “He had a perfect cover. Only the feds can pull something like that together. I should have let Alvaro finish the job, then killed and replaced Alvaro. Sixkiller speeded up the process a little. Head for safe house number one. Everything we need for now is inside. Speaking of speed, step on it. They probably saw us leave.

  “It couldn’t be the FBI or BNDD,” rambled Sterling. “BNDD is too incompetent. Besides, their pricks are so small you can cover them with a wad of gum, no cojones. The FBI has the skills and balls, but they don’t do something Sixkiller does constantly.”

  “What?” asked Ortiz obediently. Sterling never touched guns, but Ortiz saw him order a No Name to waste somebody for disagreeing with him while he was in a rage.

  “J. Edgar Hoover does not allow his agents to curse. There is such fear of being caught, or ratted out, they don’t curse.”

  “How do you know that?” ventured Ortiz.

  “The Efrem Zimbalist guy said so on the FBI show. Hoover watches it regularly. One day he called the show’s director and told him to give Zimbalist a haircut. It was in the papers.”

  Ortiz thought Sterling had to be cooling off a little if he’s talking about an actor’s haircut.

  “But that double-crossing, motherfucking Sixkiller, swaggers, stinks, and talks like a cop! It’s typical FBI to sweet talk some city’s brass into cross-deputizing a few of their best so they don’t take the risk. I have a photo of a recent FBI graduating class. And it wasn’t too hard to get. Now, how stupid is that if they’re going undercover? They find some other poor bastard to do it for them.

  “Jorge, do you recall when we greeted Sixkiller at the airport, and he was all messed up on morphine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He looked right at his sister and called her ‘Karen.’ Remember?”

  “Yeah,” said Ortiz. “I thought it was strange.”

  “Under those circumstances, whose name would you call out while looking at the face of another woman? His wife. Sixkiller’s wife is Karen. How many cops are in D.C.?”

  “Maybe three thousand,” guessed Ortiz.

  “How many full-blood Indians among those three thousand?”

  They exchanged looks.

  “Get an operator on the mobile phone. First, call the BNDD snitch on our payroll and find out who Sixkiller really is.”

  The corrupt agent answered on the second ring, and Ortiz came straight to the point.

  “He says his real name is Jake Stone, a D.C. cop who works in the northwest part of the city, but he only learned that today because information was so tightly guarded.”

  “Hang up on him. I’ll tell a No Name to kill him later for incompetence.”

  “Now, call Tyrone’s office to find out if he has been arrested yet.” Ortiz did as he was told. After a few minutes, someone picked up the phone.

  “This is Sterling. Who’s this?”

  “It’s JJ, Marcus, and the feds arrested Tyrone.”

  “Listen carefully, JJ. Maybe we can get Tyrone back. He uses a few clean-cut white boys to service the suburbs, right?”

  “Yeah, five or six actually.”

  “Pick three of the most educated, sincere looks, sharp dressers, smooth; you got the picture. Tell them to drive—separately—into northwest and find uniformed cops who are shooting the breeze, eating, in short, not doing much. Each will tell the same story: I went to Northeastern State University in Tahlequah, Oklahoma with a Cherokee named Jake who works this area. I’ve met his wife, Karen, a couple of times and would like to say hello before I go back to work in Los Angeles.

  “What I want is Jake and Karen’s address. After the initial line, they may need to get creative. Of course, cops are not supposed to give anybody a home address. Maybe
they can even say after a rejection. ‘I understand. There is so little time before my flight. Perhaps I could slip a note under the door…’

  “Tell them to use phone booths to call you to exchange progress and location every hour. We don’t want cops to start talking among themselves about this address request. Rent three cars, all four-door types with a back seat fold down option from the trunk, if possible. Get duct tape, and go armed. Mrs. Sixkiller doesn’t know it yet, but she is heading south.

  “My office is staked out. Call my secretary who will give you directions to safe house number two. Don’t mess her up. She is our ace in the hole and will tell Sixkiller how well we are treating her.”

  “Like an exchange,” said an animated JJ.

  “Yeah, like that. Let me handle the details. Now, roust those white boys and put them to work.”

  “With pleasure.”

  Monday night

  “Oh shit,” said Ortiz. “A cop just lit us up.”

  “Pull over, stop, and raise your hands where I can see them,” ordered the trooper with the loudspeaker.

  Meanwhile No Name One had slipped down almost to the floor between the front and rear seats to pull out an AK-47 with a 30-round magazine from a hidden compartment.

  “When you get an opportunity, kill them,” said Sterling quietly.

  Sterling and Ortiz had their hands up. One trooper stood between his opened door and the driver’s seat, calling the dispatcher about their vehicle stop. The other approached the car. No Name One opened the right rear door, catching both troopers by surprise. He nearly cut them in half with two, two-second bursts, spitting bullets at a rate of six-hundred rounds per minute. As they drove off, he casually put in a fresh magazine.

  “Marcus,” began Ortiz. “I don’t have any special loyalty to Tyrone, and I’m one more person holding you back. What if we stop near Boca Raton, I’ll steal a different car for you, and a plane to get me to Grand Cayman?”

  Sterling turned to gaze at him, trying to decide what to make of the proposal. On the one hand, it sounded practical; on the other hand, his feelings were a little hurt because Ortiz wanted to escape all the new law-enforcement heat. Practicality won over, and they stopped in the Boca Raton airport parking lot. Ortiz hot-wired a good-looking Buick for his boss and casually strolled onto the tarmac looking for a plane to steal.

  But Ortiz never arrived in George Town. In his haste to steal a plane without getting caught, he made the student-pilot mistake of not visually checking fuel levels. He didn’t have enough.

  Chapter 27

  A Gambler’s Chip

  Miami, Tuesday morning

  “Jamie, one safe house is in West Miami near the main airport, and the other is near Opa Locka, another airport. Coincidence? I put about 70 percent of Sterling’s millions in banks on Grand Cayman. Why would he come back here? Why not drive north to an international airport in Georgia or Pensacola and leave while he can? By the way, we faxed those flyers only to international airports in south Florida.”

  “Good thinking. Let’s fax them to all of the field offices in the United States and put the burden on them to get it out within their area. Washington would need to approve, but I’m sure they will. I’ll call Floyd and ask him to request authorization.”

  Jamie added, “If Marcus and Ortiz do return to Miami, what do they want here? This is a high-risk environment for them. We’re missing something.”

  Washington, D.C., Tuesday Morning

  “Good morning, Officer Watson. I went to Northeastern State University in Tahlequah, Oklahoma with a Cherokee named Jake who works this area. I’ve met his wife, Karen, a couple of times and would like to say hello before I go back to work in Los Angeles. Is he nearby?”

  “No, he’s been transferred to headquarters.”

  “Perhaps I could slip a note under Karen’s door saying I was here and at least tried to contact him.”

  “You can check the phonebook.”

  “Officer, forgive me, but all of you gentlemen use unlisted numbers for good reason. Somebody at the station would know.”

  “Okay. Hold on.” He was parked next to one of the ubiquitous blue call boxes. Officer Watson inserted his heavy, bronze key to open the box and took another bite of his sandwich while waiting for an answer.

  “Yeah, Watson here. What’s Stone’s home address?” He scribbled the address onto a page he ripped from a small notebook used for preliminary information gathering.

  “Here you go. Good luck.”

  “Thank you so much, Officer.”

  The drug runner, Frank, rounded the corner and found a pay phone to tell JJ.

  “Pull the other two back. I have the address. What’s next?”

  As the others phoned in, JJ selected Frank and Morgan for the job. One of their cars had a fold-down rear seat.

  “She’s a housewife in Kenwood, a rich neighborhood off of River Road on the Maryland side,” said JJ. “Back the car into the driveway like we are expected. Walk in, or pick the lock, handcuff her, and tape her mouth, but don’t hurt her or get any ideas if she’s a looker. Sterling will order a No Name to exterminate you for fooling around with the merchandise. Take some pillows from her bedroom, and fill these two boxes with heavy stuff and anything she needs from the house. She’s going to be in the back with plenty of pillows, including against the boxes where the rear seat folds up. The idea is she has plenty of fresh air and cannot hurt herself. If necessary, you can fold up the rear seat, like at a rest stop or something. Questions?”

  “She will need to pee, eat and drink,” remarked Morgan.

  “Good point. Write out a sign for all three and give her paper and a marker for other requests. Also, buy her water and food at rest stops, and drive to some rural dirt road away from people. She can eat, drink, and scream. Nobody should be near enough to hear anything. Take her to safe house number two in West Miami; here are the directions.”

  Kenwood, Maryland, Tuesday Afternoon

  Karen went to investigate some odd noises at the back door next to the picture window. Maybe another bird had flown into the window, which has to be kept clean. Why would a bird want to fly into a house anyway? Why is the dog barking? She scanned the lawn behind the house.

  “Down on your knees, Mrs. Stone,” said the intruder with the pistol. He quickly cuffed her from behind. The other was bringing duct tape into the room when Wuffe rounded a corner and tore out a piece of flesh from one of his legs. Frank screamed, rolled face up, and shot at the dog’s head. The bullet only grazed an ear, and the hundred-pound Sheppard clamped down hard on Frank’s throat, ripping it from side to side.

  As Wuffe turned toward Morgan, his upper lip rose and a guttural snarl escaped his mouth, his fangs still dripping Frank’s blood. Morgan, who had always feared big dogs, was paralyzed by the horror of dying like Frank. He knew he was next. As the big dog leaped from Frank, he almost covered the distance to Karen and Morgan. Remembering the gun in his hand, the terrified Morgan emptied the 15-round clip on Wuffe.

  Morgan and Karen were both stunned by the sudden violence. He asked Karen where the phone was. After considering an obscenity, she merely nodded to a corner of the room.

  “JJ, it’s Morgan. Frank is dead. Her monster dog killed him, and I shot the dog. Do I take her alone or do you want me to meet with a replacement en route?”

  “Get the hell out of there,” said JJ. “With gunshots and screams, cops will be all over you. Go. Drive her yourself. Remember the rules. Call me or Sterling later if necessary.”

  “We’re going on a long trip, Mrs. Stone,” said Morgan. “Do you need to take any medications with you? Anything for your personal needs?”

  “No,” as tears began to run down her cheeks.

  Morgan’s trembling hands put duct tape across her mouth. “I won’t hurt you, but you are going to use the bathroom while I grab some pillows for your comfort. My name is Morgan. If you cooperate, the journey will be long and uneventful.”

  Morgan led Karen to the
open trunk, tossed in various pillows, and pushed her in, closing the trunk lid behind her. He gave her the various signs, some paper, and a marker. Over the tops of the boxes, Karen and Morgan could see each other.

  Karen asked herself, Why is he trying to be considerate to me? I am obviously merchandise, and they had strict orders to take care of the goods. Wuffe gave his life for me. Perhaps, Jake and Jamie caught the gangsters they were looking for, and this will be a trade. Thoughts raced through her brain. Maybe it has nothing to do with Jake, and it’s a kidnapping because of my money. I wish my knees would stop shaking.

  Washington, Tuesday afternoon

  “Lieutenant Dominik, I need to speak with you, sir,” said Officer Watson.

  Dominik regarded the officer’s formality as a bad omen.

  “Go on.”

  “I haven’t seen Jake Stone since his assignment to Internal Affairs. Normally, officers run into each other at the usual watering holes, or at headquarters, despite being transferred. It’s like he’s dropped off the end of the earth, and I wondered if he’s undercover and not at Internal.” He recounted the address request in the morning and admitted to giving it to the stranger.

  Lieutenant Dominik’s face flushed, and he pointed a finger at Watson.

  “I’ll deal with you later!” and strode rapidly into the captain’s office without knocking.

  With no preamble, Dominik called out, “We may have a big problem. Apparently, Jake Stone’s cover has been blown, and they may attempt to kidnap his wife as we speak.” He summarized rapidly what Watson said.

  Captain Larson dropped his pen and stared at the lieutenant. He pulled out a flat wooden board from his large mahogany desk with a list of important phone numbers, furiously dialed and waited.

  “This is Captain Larson across the line in D.C. Put him on.”

  “Hello, Chief. I believe the wife of one of my undercover officers is in imminent danger of a kidnap this afternoon in the Kenwood area. Here is the address…Please expedite some units as well as officials, to smooth things over in case everything is fine. If she is all right, then please assign Mrs. Stone twenty-four-hour protection until I can resolve this matter. Thank you.”