by Karin Story
He smiled. It didn't take too many guesses to figure out who was on the other end of that phone line.
The glow from his cigarette was the only light in the room except for a shaft of moonlight slanting through the skylight above. The tall man stood in the center of the neat den, studying it with a practiced eye. The only thing in the room that didn't look perfectly organized was the enormous desk. There, confusion reigned. An impressive array of computer equipment and accessories dominated the desk, but tossed all over it and around the desk were stacks of papers, books, pens and pencils, and several empty coffee mugs.
He smiled maliciously. She'd been a busy girl, it seemed. His sources had been right, Sarah Magnussen was indeed a computer geek.
He'd been contacted shortly after he returned to the States. No nibbles from his boy yet, but someone had been accessing classified files. Whoever was doing it hadn't found anything of importance yet, since the retrieved documents had been altered. Still, it was problem enough that someone was even trying. Couldn't have his boy getting any information before it was time.
Narrowing down the candidates and the electronic signatures had distracted him for the better part of the day. Pesky, irritating little creatures, hackers. They served their purpose, but right now, he didn't have the time or tolerance for this kind of nonsense.
The house was deserted—he'd made a sweep of it before he discovered Miss Magnussen's technological hidey hole. Now that he was here, it was time to see just what she'd gotten her nosy little fingers into. And perhaps, as a special treat, he'd find out what his boy was up to.
He crossed to the desk and lowered himself gracefully into a straight chair he pulled over to the desk. His source had indicated that Sarah Magnussen was confined to a wheelchair. Hence, no desk chair. The computer whirred to life under his touch, the monitor adding a new glow to the room. While he waited for the system to boot, he perused the material on the desk.
Very quickly, he discovered that while the top sheet of paper on each stack had printing on it, it was gibberish. And the consecutive sheets underneath were all blank. After two stacks he didn't bother with the rest. He knew he'd find the same. Rather than being frustrated, he merely smiled. Clever, clever girl. She obviously had a secret storage place for any real information she'd found. He had to appreciate cunning when he saw it. She was good. But then again, so was he.
It only took him five minutes on her computer to determine that she was indeed very good at what she did. There was no trace of anything regarding his boy or Miss Magnussen's recent cyber adventures. He leaned back in the chair and lit another cigarette. It was then he noticed the coffee mug closest to the computer. It was still half-full. The chair squeaked in protest as he leaned forward to put his hand against the stoneware.
A knowing smile crossed his face. She wasn't far. The mug was still warm. That meant she either still had to be in the house somewhere, maybe watching him right now. Or she was nearby.
With a chuckle, he pulled himself up off the chair and stretched. She was in his open hand, and when his fingers closed around her—he knew many ways to make her talk.
* * *
The stench of offal overwhelmed his senses and Tom put a hand over his nose for a moment to catch a deep breath. Damn! Why did people with information always have to be in places like this?
He strode purposefully up the sidewalk of the small dark street, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, yet also look confident, as if he belonged here. No small feat at one in the morning when no one else appeared to be around. But he knew instinctively that even with no one visible, most likely there were eyes on the street.
315 Brown Street was the address he sought. Peering up at a dark brick building, he spotted a faint metallic gleam in the dim glow from the one yellow street light nearby. Yes, there behind the dead ivy were the numbers 3 and 5 with a gap in the middle. Must be 315. The right place.
He shrugged deeper into his coat as he rounded the corner of the building, and felt the comfortable weight of the .40 caliber Beretta Brigadier riding against his back. He'd intended to get a holster and more ammo for the 9mm he'd stolen from the security guard, but since he was wanted for murder, he couldn't risk walking into a gun store and getting caught on video tape. So he'd asked around on the street and had found an old guy dealing out of the back of his van. He'd traded the guard's piece and had given up a chunk of his cash for the Beretta. It had been worth it to have the peace of mind of knowing he had more fire power on his side. Once he'd strapped on the shoulder holster and slid the hefty gun into it, he realized how naked he'd felt without it.
Damn, it felt good.
The back of the building reeked more than the street had. The large Dumpster overflowed with filth, and he fought back a gag as he stepped across empty beer bottles, dirty plastic diapers, and food remnants. Finding a semi-comfortable spot against the wall, as far away from the garbage as he could get and still be in view of his contact, he leaned against the brick. His gaze stayed alert to any motion.
He didn't wait long.
A small shadow shuffled out of the alley nearby. "Tomás?"
"Sí." Tom didn't change his position. Let the other man come to him.
The small man shuffled closer and Tom could see he was really more of a boy than a man. He wasn't even old enough to grow proper facial hair, although it was apparent he was trying to from the scruffy patches of fuzz on his chin. This was Enrique Salazar?
"Que necesitas?" came the hoarse whisper.
"Información."
"What kind of information?" The younger man held his position also.
"I was told you know about a man called Trent Montgomery."
The black eyes blinked quickly. Yeah, the kid definitely recognized the name.
"Who told you that?"
"El jefe. He said you'd had dealings with him."
"Who wants to know?"
"A friend," Tom answered.
"A friend of his or a friend of mine?"
"Is there a difference?"
The young man chuckled harshly. "Sí, man. Big difference."
"Okay. Let me rephrase that then. Not a friend. An impartial observer."
"Ain't nobody impartial about El Tigre."
"El Tigre?"
"El Tigre. The tiger. That's what he's called."
El Tigre. Another name for Trent Montgomery. A cold, black pit opened somewhere deep inside Tom. "You ever see him before?"
"Nah, man. He don't have nothing to do with us low-lifes. He's with the big guy."
"Then what kind of dealings have you had with him?"
"Hey, man." The dark eyes grew hooded. "Why you asking so many questions?"
Tom stretched casually, but every nerve in his body stood on edge. "Curious."
"Yeah? Well you get curious about the wrong people, you get dead. You ask questions about him, you get dead. Everyone knows that."
As if he didn't hear this comment at all, Tom said, "So, you know where I can find him. El Tigre?"
"Yeah, in hell, man. In hell. He plays both sides, and there ain't nobody that likes a traitor."
"So, I'll ask you again," Tom said calmly. "What dealings have you had with him?"
"What do you want from me, man? I'm getting tired of answering questions."
"Tell me how you know him and I'll leave."
The young man's eyes squinted part-way closed, and he peered at Tom. He growled a guttural Spanish expletive, then spat out, "The bastard killed my uncle. Said their deal was sour, pulled out a gun and blew him away, man. Just like that." He snapped his fingers. His eyes burned with hatred and rage. "I'll kill the fucking bastard myself if I ever meet him in person!"
Tom calmly watched the display, then straightened, his outward appearance belying the writhing turmoil inside him. "Sorry about your tío. Good luck." He slowly turned on his heel and walked toward the side of the building.
He knew it was coming before he ever heard it or sensed it. It was inevitable. And a p
art of him wanted it, had turned his back on the boy on purpose. He was itching for a confrontation, a way to work off some of his rage.
Enrique flew at him from behind, while another, stockier man jumped him from the side.
With a deft toss of his arm, he belted the side attacker in the face with the splint on his left arm, sending the man sprawling in the filth. Before the stocky fellow could get back to his feet, Tom swiftly, gracefully pulled the big Beretta out, and in one motion, grabbed Enrique around the neck and held the gun to his temple. The gun that Enrique had been holding clattered to the ground.
For a brief moment, their eyes met, golden and black, and Tom saw a sudden upheaval in the black ones.
"Santa Maria," Enrique gasped quietly.
Tom pulled his gaze off Enrique's and motioned to the stocky fellow. "Back off," he said in a cold voice, "or I'll shoot your amigo! Back against the fence!"
The stocky man, another boy really, flattened himself against the chainlink fence that separated this alley from the next one. His eyes were large with fear.
Jesus! He had a couple of scared kids on his hands here. Well, best they understood a little fear now. Maybe it would make them more cautious in the future. He turned to Enrique, who had grown deathly still.
"Now, you will go back to your business and forget you ever saw me, sí?"
Enrique's glare became a strange combination of fetid hatred and genuine fear.
"Sí?" Tom asked again. The boy nearly lost his footing when Tom shook him for emphasis.
"Sí," Enrique spat out in a hoarse whisper.
My God, the kid sounded terrified. Hell, if he'd planned to kill him, he would have already done it. With a disgusted frown, he shoved the boy across the alley to join his friend.
He swiftly kicked Enrique's weapon. It disappeared into the mountain of filth by the Dumpster. "Stay out of trouble," he told them in a deep, threatening voice.
They both nodded dumbly.
Tom quickly made his escape, but as he rounded the corner, he heard Enrique's strangled voice whisper into the darkness of the night, "Dios, Hector. Que hombre es El Tigre."
That man is El Tigre.
Chapter 16
* * *
The tall man deftly wiped the telephone receiver with a spotless white handkerchief, then replaced the phone in the cradle on Sarah Magnussen's desk. It had been an interesting night. Not exactly what he had planned, but interesting nonetheless. And now, he was on his way.
Fascinating choice they'd made, to go to Colorado. He should have guessed that himself, though. His boy was never much one to sneak around and hide. He'd always been the charge-headlong-into-the-fray type.
The tall man chuckled. Well, this time he and his lady friend would pay the price.
Tsk, tsk, tsk. I thought you were better than this, my boy. I thought you'd be more of a challenge. I'm disappointed.
* * *
Damn! What was she supposed to do now?
Maris sat on a grassy knoll. Dead, brown blades crinkled underneath her. She was down the street from the DEA office, and in the farthest reaches of her imagination she hadn't dreamed of this problem. Although she didn't know why she hadn't considered it. It made perfect sense.
The place was like a fortress. Security cameras were mounted everywhere on the outside of the building. That in itself had deterred her from getting any closer, much less even think about going inside. So, here she sat, so close, yet so far away from the knowledge she sought. She was certain if she could just get inside that building, she could access computer records or find something that would tell her who Trent Montgomery really was and why someone would want to set him—and her—up for murder.
She looked at her watch. 12:45 in the afternoon. Her plan of being here first thing in the morning hadn't exactly worked out. For one thing, she'd overslept. All the days and nights of stress had finally caught up to her and her body had shut down for some much needed recuperation. Then, it had taken her longer to get here than she'd planned. She'd wanted to stay as low-key as possible, so had chosen not to take the Denver RTD. Unfortunately, this place wasn't exactly a close hike from where she'd stayed last night.
The DEA building sat in the midst of a large office complex. The area was heavily landscaped, and was so spread out it was one gigantic maze. It had taken her forever to wind around the road and find the right building. Little good it seemed to have done her now, with no way to get in, or even get near the building.
The grassy embankment where she perched was at the edge of a parking lot. As she sat there speculating, two white vans pulled up near her and parked. They were labeled with the name of a maintenance contractor. A gaunt, middle-aged man emerged from the more beat up of the two, and walked over to the other vehicle.
"Let's just take one car over to the Tech Center to do that job," he said to the person inside the newer van. "We need to finish the raking down the street anyway, so we can swing by and pick up the other van later this afternoon."
His companion must have answered in the affirmative, because the gaunt one shuffled around to the passenger door and climbed in. The van drove off, leaving its mate parked only twenty-five feet from Maris.
A glimmer of an idea began to form in her mind.
She stared down the street to see if the other vehicle was really gone. It was. Unable to resist her curiosity, she jogged the short distance to the van.
The driver's side door swung open easily. Idiots. She climbed into the seat and pulled the door shut behind her, then turned and examined the contents of the vehicle. Landscaping maintenance, definitely. She saw rakes, clippers, an assortment of chemicals for treating lawns.
A sojourn into the back provided her with a pair of semi-clean, gray coveralls. She pulled them on over her clothes. Too long, but that was a minor detail. A baseball cap turned up next with the name Oscar's Landscaping emblazoned across the front in bright green letters.
Back in the driver's seat she contemplated her next obstacle. How to get the van running. If worse came to worst, she supposed she could always leave it here and just trek up the street with a few appropriate "lawn" items. But having the van nearby would be much better. It would give her some cover.
She tried the obvious and very old trick of pulling down the sun visor in case the driver had stashed the keys there. Of course he hadn't. That only worked in the movies.
As far as she knew, hot-wiring was also something that only worked in the movies. So she began rummaging through the console between the seats hoping a set of keys would magically appear. Next she tried the glove compartment. Nothing. Searching through the junk in the back wasn't time effective. She could look all day back there and not find anything.
She perused the interior one last time before heading out on foot. As almost an afterthought, she ran her hands along the metal dash under the steering wheel. Her hand bumped into something small, cold and hard.
No way! Maris ran her fingers over the object and discovered it to be a thin rectangular box. With a chuckle, she pried it off with her fingernails, and felt the slight pull of the magnet as it disengaged from the metal dash. The box slid open to reveal a key. She inserted it into the ignition and with a small prayer, turned it.
The van rattled to life underneath her. A grin lit her face.
Slowly, she approached the DEA building. She found a parking place in the nearby lot, and got out of the van. Her hair was tucked up under the cap, but she still pulled the brim down as low as she could. The back door of the van opened without a fuss, and she pulled out a rake and set to work on the grassy median near the building.
The urge to look over her shoulder and stare at the building threatened to overcome her, but she forced herself to concentrate on raking. She hadn't quite figured out yet how she was going to get into the building, but at least now she was close enough to watch for an opening. What she needed was a secretary, or another unsuspecting janitor, to come out—someone walking through the parking lot she could easily
pickpocket an ID badge from. It wasn't the greatest plan, and would be much riskier than her theft at the morgue because this time she'd be in plain sight of those pesky security cameras.
Forty minutes later, however, all she'd accomplished was raking up a decent pile of dead leaves, and working up a sweat under the pale November sun. Only one group of people had exited the building—agents, judging by their dark colored windbreakers with DEA written in bold letters across the back. Eight armed federal agents equated to bad, bad odds for her. She might sometimes be ballsy, as Jerry Spengler frequently reminded her, but she wasn't out and out stupid.
Damn, she needed a little help here.
She was just wondering what kind of a criminal penalty would be brought against her if she kidnapped a federal agent, and how many years she'd have to spend in prison, when two men emerged from the building.
Maris forced herself to focus on her work until she could get a handle on whether these two might have potential. As she scooped dead grass and leaves into a plastic garbage bag, the men stopped only a few feet from her. The words they spoke seared into her brain, shutting down all other thoughts. She didn't dare turn to look at them.
A gentle baritone voice said, "If you have any news on Montgomery, I'd appreciate it if you'd call me."
"Will do. Although, don't be expecting it. He hasn't been in contact with the agency in some time now." This voice was businesslike, sharp, dismissive.
"I understand." The deep one again, laced with frustration.
Maris mechanically bent and scooped, bent and scooped.
"Sorry I couldn't be more helpful. But as I said, we haven't had anything to do with him anytime recently. Drive safely."
"I'll do that." A tired sigh.
The sound of footsteps echoed behind her. She heard the low squeak of the glass door on the building swinging open, then shut. Only then did she turn, her heart in her throat, to see who was walking away.
A big, dark-headed man in jeans and a heavy parka strode across the parking lot. He stopped at a newer-model green Chevy Suburban.