by Glenn Trust
George hesitated only an instant before giving the number. He gave a quick glance into Rince’s surprised face and gave a slight shake of his head. He had no choice.
“Very good. I will call you soon, within hours. Keep your phone with you if you want to know where Budroe is.”
“I’ll have it with me.”
“Good. There is no reason to try and track this number. It is a disposable phone. I believe you call it a burner here in the States. Soon it will be at the bottom of the ocean.” The man on the line laughed one final time. “Such a wonderful country…America is. So many opportunities. Don’t miss yours, Deputy Mackey.”
The call ended and George looked at Rince. “Are you with me?”
The pilot nodded soberly. “I’m with you.”
Five minutes later, they were pulling from the hospital parking lot. George took the cell phone from his pocket and dialed Sharon.
“Where are you?” Sharon had come down the hall to the nurse’s station and found George and Rince gone.
“I have to go.”
“Where?”
“Heron Run.”
“Where?” There was the slightest tinge of annoyance in Sharon’s voice.
“Heron Run…in Florida, on the Gulf coast.”
“Why? What’s in Heron Run?”
“Roy Budroe. I think.” The uneasy feeling that he was being sent on a wild goose chase crept into his mind. He shook it away. “If he’s there, I’ll find him and end this.”
There was no sense trying to talk him out of it. In her heart she didn’t want to. Sharon said the only thing that she could. “Be careful, Mackey.”
95. He Was Free
There was a metallic click, a faint hydraulic whoosh, followed by the thud of the .223 round smacking into the head and through the brain of Peña’s man, still standing on the dock, speaking to his girlfriend in Puerto Rico. He dropped instantly, sliding from the end of the dock into the water, taking his cell phone and the concerned voice of his girlfriend with him.
Watching from his little patio, fifty yards away, Ramón Guzman heard almost no sound. He was sorry to see the guard’s life end in that manner. He had been a pleasant fellow, always professional in his duties, but courteous at the same time.
It was Reynaldo Vargas, the one with whom he had spent so much time. Vargas had been his companion at the Soto meeting. Bad luck for Reynaldo, but tonight Guzman would make his own luck. This was business and chance had placed Reynaldo on duty that evening. Chance had ended his life. Guzman felt exhilarated, in command of his future for the first time in a long while not relying on chance or the whims of Roy Budroe.
A boat moved out of the darkness into the dim circle of light from a single bulb hanging at the end of the dock. The small craft was silent, rowed by one large man seated in the center. A second sat in the rear holding the suppressed rifle that had fired the bullet that drilled a hole in Vargas' head.
Guzman rose and walked to the dock. If anyone had been watching from the house, they would have seen nothing out of the ordinary. He frequently walked out to the water, spending hours gazing at the stars or the lights of the passing boats.
At the dock, he turned and took one look at the house. The lights were on in the family room where Budroe was holding court, making plans with Marques Peña. He stepped down into the boat, seating himself on the wooden front seat of the dinghy.
A few minutes later the boat pulled alongside a large, idling, v-hulled, cabin cruiser. He climbed aboard, assisted by one of Armando Soto’s men. The dinghy and its two occupants moved off, disappearing within a few oar strokes into the night.
Seated in a deck chair, Guzman felt the captain of the boat ease the throttle forward. The engines responded with a muted, deep-throated rumble. They moved, slowly at first, picking up speed, as the hull cut through the smooth water of the channel that separated the mainland from the key. Beyond the key was the Gulf of Mexico.
Half a mile from Roy Budroe’s, aka Harvey Harristone’s, Heron Run house, the boat’s running lights came on. The captain steered with familiarity down the channel, under a bridge and then turned through an opening in the key. A few minutes later, they were rising and falling on the sea swells. A storm was churning a few miles offshore and the normally placid Gulf was covered in whitecaps glowing phosphorescently in the dark. The night air blew refreshingly into Guzman’s face.
Alone on the deck, he grinned broadly and turned his head into the wind breathing deeply, sucking in the sea air, enjoying the ride. The spray kicked up by the boat’s hull slicing through the chop covered his face. He opened his mouth and tasted the fresh saltiness of the water. He was free.
96. A Nagging Worry
“We need to land.”
“Why.” Peering through the side window, George studied the ground below. Scattered lights showed where the community of Heron Run was supposed to be located, but that was all they saw. An occasional car moved on a street, the yellow cones of headlights showing its location. On the water, things were black, indistinguishable. Occasionally, they picked up the red and green marker lights of a boat making its way in from, or out to, the Gulf.
“Because we’ve been circling half the night, waiting for him to call again.” Rince banked and turned out over the Gulf and circled back over the mainland for another pass. “We’re low on fuel.” He looked at George. “We’ll need fuel, George, if he calls…when he calls.”
Pulling his eyes away from the window and the darkness below, George nodded. “You’re right. Where?”
“Let’s set down in Sarasota, get fueled up and wait for the call. We might need a car too. We can get one there.”
“You’re right.” George shook his head and smiled at Rince. “Sorry. Acting like a rookie cop, not thinking things through.”
“Nothing to be sorry about. I want him as bad as you do, George.” He looked over at the big deputy, realizing that wasn’t entirely true. George Mackey wanted justice…a complete reckoning of accounts, for Fel Tobin and for Sandy Davies. God help Roy Budroe. The reckoning was coming.
“All right. Let’s do it like you said. Set it down, get fueled and wait for the call.”
With a nod, Johnny Rincefield turned north and made his approach into Sarasota. George studied the roads and highways below, wondering which ones Budroe might take if he attempted an escape.
He had briefed the local sheriff at Heron Run by phone. The sheriff had promised full support and had alerted his deputies on duty, but without an exact location, there was nothing to do, but cruise the streets and back roads and wait. The countryside and shoreline were dotted with houses and shacks. Budroe could be anywhere. Get too aggressive in looking for him and he might get spooked and leave the area.
George fought back a nagging worry. Maybe Budroe had already left the area…or he had never been there to begin with. Uncomfortable, he realized that the biggest rookie mistake he might be making was his reliance on an unknown and unseen informant who was playing things his way, for his reasons.
97. Not Without A Fight
Thirty miles off the coast, the big yacht slowly came into view. The cabin cruiser’s captain approached slowly, carefully. The chop had calmed to gently rising swells that diminished with the passing hours. By morning, the Gulf’s surface would return to a glassy mirror.
The cabin cruiser bobbed in unison with the yacht, three feet from its side. With a deck hand at his side to steady him, Guzman timed the rise and fall of the swells and took a long step across the gap and onto the yacht’s swim platform. Standing on the low platform, a man dressed in a linen shirt, tan slacks and soft leather deck shoes put his hand out and gave a single formal handshake and bow.
Guzman smiled. “It is good to see you, Armando.”
“And you, Ramón. Your trip was comfortable?”
“Fantastic! Exhilarating!” Guzman’s good cheer at his release from the frustrations of captivity was gushing from his normally reserved personality.
Soto s
miled. “That’s good. You seem…energetic.”
“I am, Armando. Energetic and ready to take on the world…or at least Roy Budroe.” The grin that had not left his face since departing the Heron Run house grew even broader.
To the east, the rising sun threw pink and red rays into the sky. Soto and Guzman turned to gaze at the oncoming day. They were far enough offshore that the sun appeared to be rising from the water. Slowly, the bright orange orb lifted, as if pulling itself from the sea. Then, with a final push, it surged above the horizon and was free of any attachment with planet, floating alone above the Gulf.
Soto’s men on the yacht and the cabin cruiser stood quietly respectful as their patron and his guest watched the sunrise. Finally, Guzman pulled his eyes from the sunrise and turned to Soto.
“I have a call to make.
Soto nodded. “Yes, an important one, I think.”
He led Guzman to the main deck and then inside to the lounge. Seated in a plush leather chair a minute later, Guzman took a phone from his pocket and pressed the numbers.
George paced the waiting area of the general aviation terminal in Sarasota, moving around the room, then outside onto the tarmac then back inside. Rince stood behind the desk with the terminal’s overnight agent, chatting and checking weather reports. From the corner of his eye, he watched the nervous pacing and kept track of the man he had promised to bring safely back to Sharon.
Periodically, George would look at his cell phone’s screen making sure he still had battery life and a signal. He was holding it staring at the battery icon when the call came in. He nearly dropped the phone when it started playing its ringtone song at full volume. Scowling at Rince, who tried to suppress a smile, George punched the green answer button.
“Yes?”
“Good. You are there. Have you arrived at Heron Run?”
“I’m in the area, not far.”
“And you have alerted the authorities?”
“They know what I know, which isn’t much. Where is he?”
“Right to business. A man after my own taste.” Guzman gave the location and street address of the house in Heron Run and added, “It is on the water. They will be leaving by water today. You should hurry.”
“And you?”
“Oh, don’t concern yourself about me.” Guzman gave his soft laugh. “I am far away now. As a matter of fact, I am sure that Mr. Budroe and his men are looking for me quite energetically about now.”
“I imagine so.” George’s voice took on a dark tone. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing.”
“Believe me, Deputy. It is no game. I recognize the risks. I am willing to take them.”
“You understand that once I have Budroe, I’ll come for you.”
“Then you will waste your time. You will never find me.” Guzman’s voice took on a seriousness to match George’s. “I suggest that you focus on the one you want more than anyone else. He has men. They are well armed and well trained. So you see, your game is dangerous also. Goodbye now.”
George was pushing his way through the glass doors to the tarmac as the call ended. Rince climbed into the Cessna, turned the engine over, and went through his checklist while George contacted the sheriff in Heron Run to give him the address of the house. He took care to advise the sheriff of the probability of Budroe being surrounded by some very dangerous men, he cautioned him to surround the location and stand by for backup. He was going to need it.
“Can you radio the Coast Guard from the plane?”
Rince looked over at George as he braked at the end of the runway waiting for clearance from the tower to take off. “Yes. What’s up?”
“Budroe is staying in a house on the water. I’m betting he’s going to make a run out to the Gulf. Disappear there.”
Rince nodded, released the brakes and pushed the throttle forward as the tower cleared their take off. “Let me get us in the air, and I’ll let them know.”
“How long to Heron Run?”
“Not long. Be there in twenty minutes or so. They have a small private aviation airport. I’ll set down there. Have the sheriff pick us up and we can be at Budroe’s front door in thirty minutes.”
George nodded and watched the coastline below wondering what he might be forgetting…wondering if this was a wild goose chase…wondering who the man on the phone was and what his plans were. The one thing he was sure of was that Roy Budroe would not go down without a fight.
98. Now What?
“Goddamnit!” Budroe’s rage had not yet peaked and Marques Peña wondered how much higher it could go. “Where the fuck is he!”
“He is gone.” Peña stood calmly before the furious crime boss. “My men are searching, but I do not think he will be found.”
“Your men! That’s a fucking joke!” Budroe yanked the still-lit cigar from between his clenched teeth and threw it across the room where it bounced off the wall onto the carpet.
Peña made no move to retrieve the cigar, smoldering in the carpet. There were limits to the degradations he would tolerate, even from Roy Budroe, contract be damned.
Enraged though he was, Budroe was rational enough not to press the issue. Peña was a man to be respected, even feared, despite the failures of the last few days. He lived by an unyielding code. Budroe knew that along with the rigid ethic that required him steadfastly to fulfill the requirements of any agreement he made, his personal code prevented him from accepting any insult. Expecting him to retrieve the cigar would be severe enough an insult to cancel any agreement he had with Budroe.
They stared at each other, both ignoring the acrid smoke beginning to come from the carpet where the cigar smoldered. Finally, Budroe stood, walked across the room and picked it up, stamping loudly on the smoldering carpet. “Your men have failed in pretty much everything they were assigned to do, don’t you think, Marques?”
Peña made no reply. He stood expressionless, ramrod straight in the center of the room. When Budroe stood up, the cigar clenched again in his teeth he turned to face Peña, their eyes locked.
“Nothing to say?”
“About what?”
“About the way your men have fucked everything up.” Budroe shoved the cigar that had been on the floor back in his mouth and pulled out his lighter. He puffed and spoke at the same time. “Missed getting Mackey’s woman, and that pissant sheriff. Now Guzman’s gone.” He shook his head and laughed sourly. “They did manage to kill an old man, though.” He nodded and blew smoke at the ceiling. “That’s something, I guess.” He crossed the room to the sofa and sat down slowly. “Pretty much fucked up…don’t you think, Marques?”
Peña did not attempt to defend the performance of his team. That three men had died trying to fulfill their contract with Budroe was of no consequence to the crime boss. Peña knew this. He would not demean their sacrifice or past service by making excuses. Once again, the intractable code by which he conducted his life widened the growing gulf between him and his employer.
“Now what?” Budroe watched for some reaction from Peña, knowing there would be none.
“Now we must leave.” Peña nodded at the bay through the window. “I have a boat standing by. We should board and get out to sea.”
Ten minutes later, Budroe had gathered his personal items and was following Peña across the back yard to the dock. They stopped in their tracks half way across the lawn.
Cruising slowly up the channel in the center of the bay, the twenty-five foot Defender-class Coast Guard response boat cut its engines, idling while the crew scanned the various docks along the shore with their binoculars. They did not miss the seaworthy charter fishing boat at the end of the dock at Heron Run.
The Defender turned and moved at a crawl towards the dock. The crew could be seen on its deck. They were armed. Two held long weapons, shotguns or M-16s.
Peña caught the eye of the man who captained the fishing charter. There was no communication beyond an exchanged nod. It was enough.
“Come.” He turned
and cut around the side of the house. “We go by car. Now!”
Roy Budroe did not have to be persuaded any further. He had caught sight of the Coast Guard patrol boat at the same time as Peña. Keeping pace behind his chief of security, he muttered, “Goddamnit.”
Peña waved in the men he had stationed around the house as rear guard security. Now they would take the point and lead them out of the area. He climbed behind the wheel of the Escalade while Budroe piled into the passenger seat.
Four men in a minivan led the way from the house, spinning the vehicle’s tires loudly as they spun out onto the asphalt of the residential street. At an intersection ahead, two deputies sipped coffee, doing exactly what they had been instructed by the Heron Run sheriff. Standby and wait for backup. They would have been more than happy to do so were it not for the two vehicles barreling down on them. They crouched by their cars, readying themselves for the confrontation that was coming. Both realized there would be no backup. One made the call to their dispatcher while the other pumped a round into his shotgun, waiting as the van roared closer.
The side doors of the minivan slid open and a man leaned out on each side, armed with what looked to the deputies like AK-47s. Rounds began spitting at the deputies from Peña’s men, thudding metallically into the deputies’ cars. One deputy took two rounds into the front of the protective vest he wore and went down. He would have stayed down permanently had the rounds not passed through the door of his vehicle before impacting his vest. As it was, he suffered some penetration into his chest and significant blunt force trauma. It would be months before he could move without grimacing in pain.
The second deputy pulled his head below the hood of his car as the minivan and Escalade passed. A burst from one of the AK-47s passed directly through the space his head had occupied a second before. He managed not to piss his pants or throw up, but only because the adrenaline pumping through his arteries made him raise his arm reflexively and empty his nine-millimeter pistol into the van as it disappeared down the street.