by Matt Lincoln
With an address on the east end of the island, the neighborhood that Cobra Jon called home was a far cry from the rundown turf where Tomaz Sands ruled. The Congo Kings were the top of the heap when it came to street gangs, but the Black Mambas inhabited the next level of wannabe gentlemen criminals reminiscent of Prohibition-era gangsters. Here, the houses were high-end and set on larger tracts of land with plenty of greenery and palm trees and looked like the Bahamas that tourists usually envisioned.
Cobra Jon figured he was entitled to the finer things in life, while Sands was old-school. Hence the rivalry between them.
“So, that idea you had earlier,” Holm said from the passenger seat as I navigated the streets toward the address. “Ready to share it yet?”
It took a minute for me to figure out which idea he meant. “Still not much there, honestly,” I said. “The thing is, I was thinking about shipwrecks.”
“Right. Your pirate boat,” he said.
“That, and our victim. Those wood splinters from the Twin Arrow.” I tapped the steering wheel in thought. “We can be almost positive that Sweeting wrecked a boat somewhere between the Bahamas and that beach, and then somehow got to shore. That means the boat couldn’t have gone down too deep.”
Holm was already nodding. “So you were thinking not just shipwrecks, but recovery.”
“Exactly, and why do people recover shipwrecks?”
He grinned. “For the treasure.”
That was my working theory. Sweeting was transporting something valuable on that boat, and whatever it was, Cobra Jon wanted it back. It would explain why Benta left the body where he thought it wouldn’t be discovered, and why he attempted to misdirect a potential investigation by framing the Congo Kings. They didn’t want a police presence in the area to screw up their recovery operation.
If we could catch Cobra Jon in the act of reclaiming whatever had been on that boat, he’d never be able to slip out of it. We could put him away for good.
“That’s the place,” Holm commented, pointing through the windshield.
Just ahead on the right was a large ocean-blue house bordering on mansion set far back on meticulously landscaped grounds that were surrounded by an eight-foot, wrought iron fence. Men in suits prowled the place, with one standing just inside the gate, one walking the fence perimeter, two circulating the grounds, and one at the front entrance of the house. No doubt they were all armed and able to instantly communicate with the boss.
“You know what? I don’t think they’re going to let us in,” my partner said.
I frowned as I slowed the car and pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the street. “I think you’re probably right, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Is it really?” he asked sarcastically.
“Guess we’ll find out.”
We got out and crossed the street, prepping our badges to show the gate guard who watched our approach with an unfriendly expression. I kept scanning the area, alert for possible surprise movements, and picked up on faint sounds carried from the back of the house on a warm breeze. Water splashing, soft music playing, voices laughing and chattering. So there was definitely somebody home in there.
“Hey there,” I called to the man as we neared. “Special Agent Marston, Special Agent Holm, MBLIS. We’re looking for Jon Calabar. He in there?”
The guard said nothing.
Holm and I stopped at the gate and exchanged a look, and I passed a hand in front of the guard’s face.
“Jon Calabar,” I said. “Cobra Jon? Need to speak with your boss, buddy.”
The man took in a slow, deliberate breath. “Got an appointment?”
“No,” I said.
“A warrant?”
“Strike two.”
“Piss off, then.”
“You believe this?” Holm chuckled and shook his head, looking from me to the guard. “We just want to have a chat with the man. I thought you Black Mamba boys weren’t afraid of us little ole law enforcement types.”
I picked up his play and ran with it. “That’s what I heard, too. I mean, C.J. doesn’t have anything to hide, right?”
The guard’s expression moved a fraction, and I caught sight of the man who’d been walking the fence approaching at a deliberate stride. One of the lawn guys seemed to be headed in our direction, too.
This was going to get ugly soon.
“Fine, how about this?” I said as I reached into my jacket and saw the guard tense, going for the gun holstered at his side. I held my free hand up. “Take it easy, Rocky. Just getting my contact info.”
The guard grunted.
I pinched a business card from my pocket and handed it through the bars. “I’d appreciate it if you could have Mr. Calabar contact me at his earliest convenience.” Holm watched me with a raised eyebrow but didn’t ask questions. “I think he’s going to want to hear what I have to say.”
With a fraction of a smile, the guard plucked the card from my hand, and then deliberately crumpled it into a ball and dropped it on the ground. “I’ll pass the message along.”
“Great. Thanks.”
Holm followed my lead as I walked away and headed for the car. He waited until we were inside to comment. “That went well,” he intoned. “Huge waste of three perfectly good weekend hours, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, I didn’t ask. We’re not done yet.” I started the engine, put the car into gear, and pulled onto the street, accelerating slowly past the house.
“Where are we going now?” he asked.
I glanced in the mirror at the house and smirked. “Pool party.”
He huffed a sigh. “I’m guessing it’s not one we were actually invited to.”
“Nah. We’re crashing it.”
I drove three blocks, hung a right, and then took the next right turn to double back toward the house and come up behind it. I figured, correctly as it turned out, that Cobra Jon didn’t have any neighbors directly behind his place. The property was bordered on the next block by a stand of palm trees, and glimpses of more fencing and the house beyond were visible through the trunks. The only difference was that the fence along the back border was three-foot white stockade instead of iron, and there was no guard at the simple hinged gate.
That didn’t rule out the presence of more guards, though. It just meant they were probably better hidden back here.
Once again, Holm and I climbed out of the car and headed for the property. We didn’t bother with the badges this time as we wove our way through the trees, half-crouched and eyes open.
The backyard was much larger than the front. After the trees and the dense vegetation, the stockade fence protected an emerald-green expanse of grass with a fair-sized garden just starting to sprout in the back left corner. Closer to the house, a chain-link fence surrounded a massive pool and patio area littered with party-goers, mostly of the female persuasion. No guards in sight back here.
Cobra Jon had to be among them somewhere.
We crept toward the back gate. It was probably locked, but the fence was short enough that we could vault over if it came to that. I was within touching distance of the gate when a gunshot rang out, and I felt the wind of a bullet pass my head.
A single female scream rang out from the pool party, followed quickly by a few more. I ignored the commotion and whirled left, in the direction the gunfire had come from, and drew my weapon in a single smooth motion. There was another shot, this time to my right, and Holm sprang into alert.
Two suited guards burst from the tree line behind us, one at either end. The one near me fired again, and I returned fire, intentionally hitting the ground in front of him to shower dirt and splintered plants in his face.
“No casualties, if you can help it,” I called to Holm. “I don’t want the paperwork.”
He grunted an affirmation as he traded gunfire with his target.
The guy I’d fired at had leapt aside and rolled with the shot. Now he’d found his footing again. I ran at him and tackled him to the gro
und. Then I smashed the gun out of his hand as the cries from the interrupted pool party intensified and the sounds of scrambling and running joined them.
I glanced back at Holm, made sure he’d engaged his target, and returned my focus to mine, who struggled beneath me as he tried to finger-walk a hand to his lost weapon. I lashed out a foot and kicked the gun further.
When my weight shifted, he pushed out from beneath me and hauled himself back to his feet.
I had my weapon trained on him before he could make another move.
“Like I told your buddies out front, we just want to talk to your boss,” I said evenly, not looking away from him. “You good, Robbie?”
“Yeah,” he called. A quick side-glance showed him in a similar position, his target disarmed and scowling in front of him.
“Okay, then.” I gestured with my chin to the back gate. “I don’t feel like going back around to the front door. Let’s go this way. You and your partner there first.”
Holm walked the second guard over, and we moved them at gunpoint through the gate and across the backyard. A lone figure remained in the pool area near the lounge chairs at the shallow end to watch our little progression.
“Just the man we wanted to see,” I drawled when we got close enough to make him out.
From his files, I knew that Cobra Jon was Polynesian by birth but had grown up in Cuba, where he’d embarked on a life of crime starting in his early teens. He was twenty-two when he relocated to Nassau Bahamas and had brought most of his original crew with him. Here he’d stayed for the past fifteen years, putting down roots and fertilizing his empire.
He was slightly taller than average, his head shaved to black stubble and dressed in nothing but a pair of red swimming trunks that left his hairless, muscled body and the snake tattoo that coiled up his left arm and draped over his shoulder on display. In his right hand, he held his iconic walking stick, polished hickory topped with a carved onyx snake’s head, the black mamba that gave the gang its name.
One of the guards started to stumble through an apology when we halted them in front of Cobra Jon, but he held up a hand to stall the words.
“Go to the house and help the others tend to my guests,” he said. “They’re a bit unsettled, after all the gunfire.”
“You sure, jefe?” the other one said.
Cobra Jon did not confirm that he was sure, but his expression must have because both guards hustled toward the house.
I gave a nod to Holm, and we both holstered our weapons. “Well, you’re not stupid. I’ll give you that. I guess you know that your guys started the firefight.”
“Yes, because someone was attempting to trespass on my property.” The gang leader looked coolly between us. “I’ve been informed that an Agent Marston and an Agent Holm asked for me at the front gate. I assume that is the two of you.”
“Fair assumption. I’m Marston, he’s Holm.” I pointed to the walking stick. “What’s with the cane? You don’t seem particularly infirm.”
He stared at me. “You didn’t break into my home to ask after my physical health, Agent Marston.”
“You’re right. I didn’t.” I offered up a sigh as if I was sorry for the intrusion. “The thing is, Mr. Calabar, my partner and I are in the middle of an investigation, and I’m afraid that an acquaintance of yours is involved. His name is Agay Benta.”
The gang leader gave a slow blink. “Call me Jon,” he said without a trace of friendliness. “What does your investigation have to do with me?”
“Gee, Jon. You don’t seem too concerned about your friend,” Holm said. “You didn’t even ask about Benta.”
“No need to,” he said. “I am aware he has been taken into custody.”
“Yeah? Well, are you aware that your main man missed his target?” I watched his face and saw the slightest of reactions, a small twitch at the corner of one eye. “That’s right. We have solid evidence to convict Benta of murder, and we’re going to bring you down with him.”
I was expecting the cold, unfeeling laugh that followed my words, but it didn’t stop me from being a little disappointed. They always wanted to do things the hard way.
“You can’t possibly be saying that you have evidence to charge me with Chad’s murder,” Cobra Jon said. “I haven’t been off the island in weeks.”
A look passed between Holm and me. “I didn’t say who was murdered or where it happened, Jon,” I said, emphasizing the name. “You seem a little too informed for someone who had nothing to do with it.”
“As I mentioned, I am aware that you have Agay in custody,” Cobra Jon said smoothly. “I’m a reasonable man, so I will allow you to leave my property now without pressing charges for unlawful entry.”
This time, I laughed. “I don’t think so. You’re coming stateside with us, so we can question you regarding the murders of Chad Sweeting and Gordon Traynor.”
Another eye twitch. “So now you are falsely accusing me of two murders?”
“For starters,” I said. “Except you can scratch the ‘false’ part.”
Cobra Jon started to look angry, but then he relaxed his features with visible effort. “Very well, Agent Marston. I will go with you and your partner, but only because you need to learn a very important lesson about me and my affairs.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”
“Simply that I will not be accompanying you off-island.” A disconcerting smile lifted his lips, and he reached his free hand out toward a patio table just behind him.
Our weapons were out instantly. “Don’t even think about it,” Holm snapped before I could.
“I have no malicious intent, agents,” Cobra Jon said as he stepped aside to give us a clear view of the table, which held nothing but an empty drink glass and a cell phone. “What I am doing is for your protection. If I don’t tell my men that I am leaving with you willingly, they will stop you. Rather permanently, I’m afraid. It’s what I pay them for.”
“Fine,” I said without lowering the gun. “Make your call.”
He reached out again, picked up the phone, and started tapping far too many times for dialing a number.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“It’s called texting. I want to keep this message low-key, so my guests aren’t any further alarmed than you’ve already made them.”
I almost demanded that he place a call anyway, so we could hear what he said, but at this point, it didn’t matter. It was a big enough risk trying to bring him in at all, and even if he spoke with his guards, they probably had some verbal code that would let him tell them whatever he wanted anyway.
It took him a while to finish texting. When he finally stopped, he moved to slip the phone in his pocket.
“Uh-uh. Back on the table.” I gestured with the gun. “You can lose the walking stick, too. No weapons.”
He rolled his eyes, tossed the phone on the table, and leaned his cane against one of the lounges. “Satisfied?”
“Not until you’re behind bars,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Even as we walked him across the backyard toward the squad car, I knew nothing was going to stick. Not this time, at least. Still, I had a lesson of my own that I wanted to teach him.
I would not be intimidated into giving up.
20
Cobra Jon, handcuffed in the backseat, didn’t have much to say until we were nearly through downtown Nassau and headed north, toward the RBPF marine unit. That was when he shifted and leaned forward, baring his teeth in a fake smile. “Are you even slightly aware of the monumental mistake you two are making right now?”
“Mistake,” Holm repeated. “Hey, are we making one of those?”
“Not just a mistake. A monumental mistake,” I corrected mockingly. “Like, they’re going to build big marble statues dedicated to our mistake.”
“Wow. I’ve always wanted to be immortalized with a statue.” Holm half-turned to glance at our passenger. “Maybe you can tell us what kind of mistake we’re making. Like, besides
monumental. Did I forget to put on deodorant this morning, or is it just Marston’s terrible driving?”
Cobra Jon’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve crossed the wrong man,” he said through his teeth. “Mark my words—”
“Okay, hold up,” I interrupted. “Do you think you could pack any more clichés into that threat? I mean, I know you’re not a native English speaker, but ‘mark my words’ is a little unimaginative. Maybe try a few movie quotes or something.”
Holm coughed to cover a laugh. “Good idea. Like, you can’t go wrong with Nicholson. How’d that one from ‘A Few Good Men’ go? I’m gonna rip your eyes out and piss in your dead skull?”
Cobra Jon loosed a string of non-English words that were clearly expletives.
“Much better,” I told him. “Only threats are probably more effective if the people you’re threatening understand what the hell you’re saying.”
He fell silent, his face reddening briefly before he sat back against the seat.
It wasn’t long until we reached the marine unit and drove around back to the station parking lot which bordered the docks.
“Just have to return this car, and then we’ll all have a nice little boat ride,” I said as I pulled into a slot and cut the engine. “You want to wait out here, Robbie?”
“Sure. While you’re gone, me and C.J. can talk about movies, and who’s gonna piss in whose skull.”
I nodded. “Just remember, you’re not Nicholson. You’re Cruise.”
“Hanging from a yardarm, then. Got it,” he said. “I’m not sitting in this hot car, though. I’ll wait outside.”
We both exited the vehicle, leaving our gang leader to sweat in the backseat. I hadn’t even stepped away from the driver’s side when the rear entrance of the precinct swung open, and a familiar, unwelcome figure strode toward us, arms swinging angrily at his sides.
“Captain Laury,” I half-groaned. “What brings you to the marine unit on a Sunday?”