Burn Zone

by James O. Born

  Duarte almost stopped the little Cobalt in traffic when he looked up and saw the U-Haul sign on the dingy little building that looked like a former gas station. The van had to be there. He wondered if it had been turned in as he pulled the Cobalt into the tiny lot.

  Inside, the business presented no more of a professional look. Ancient posters of 1970s vintage cars pulling U-Haul trailers were stuck on the walls without pattern, a small office with a desk piled high in paperwork was empty.

  Duarte peeked through an open door into the two-bay garage. It was hot, but the bay doors were closed and a large man with blond hair leaned under the hood of a van. Stepping inside, he said, "Excuse me," in a loud voice.

  The giant man in a filthy, white T-shirt that had to have been dirty when he put it on this morning, straightened up and looked toward Duarte.

  "Help you?"

  "Maybe. I'm interested in a van."

  "I only got trailers left. Three of 'em out in the back. Should get a van back tonight."

  Duarte got a sense this guy was nervous. "What about the one in the bay?"

  The fat mechanic waddled a little closer, blocking Duarte's view of the van. "This here one is down for a while."

  Duarte stepped into the bay.

  The mechanic said, "Sorry, bud, but you can't come out here. Insurance reasons."

  Ignoring the mechanic, he started to pass the giant man.

  The mechanic reached out to grab Duarte's arm until the ATF man said, "Don't try it unless you want to work a ratchet with your left hand."

  The man knew threats when he heard them and quickly withdrew the hand.

  Duarte looked in the cab of the van, then in the glove compartment. He found the paperwork signed by William Floyd. He turned to the mechanic. "This is the van I'm looking for." He knew not to mention the GPS. This guy may have rented U-Hauls, but he was not part of their corporate structure.

  Duarte said, "Where's the man who was driving this?"

  The fat man shrugged. That was annoying.

  Duarte took a quick step closer to him.

  The mechanic said, "Look, I don't want no trouble."

  "Then you better answer some questions."

  "What was in that truck that made you Spanish people so interested?"

  "Someone else was by here?"

  "Yep, and he paid me five hundred bucks for information. What are you good for?"

  "I won't break your arm for having a stolen van."

  "How you know it's stolen?"

  "Because the company doesn't have it as returned, you're stripping it, and you got the bay doors closed when it's a hundred degrees in here. Now you gonna give me some answers or am I going to take your right arm in my grip?"

  The fat man played with his blond curly hair for a minute and said, "I like your threats better than the monkey-looking guy's. I think he would've kilt me if I didn't talk."

  Duarte knew exactly whom he meant: the first mate from the Flame of Panama. "Talk to me, and you won't see me again."

  "That's what Monkey Boy said."

  Duarte was ready to get some answers.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later Duarte drove past the house where the fat mechanic had told him he had sent the other man who "looked like a monkey." Duarte knew the description and that the man was likely the first mate of the Flame of Panama. He had Félix Baez going through the DEA in Panama right now to find out his name. Whoever he was, he was smart enough to get ahead of Duarte and had at least some cash. The mechanic admitted to having been paid five hundred bucks to tell the man where the van had come from.

  The men who had questioned the mechanic, and by the description of the second man, Duarte thought it might be his William "Ike" Floyd, had asked for another van to replace the partially disassembled one the mechanic had hidden in his shop. That meant they would've arranged for transportation from this area, because the fat guy had no more step vans.

  The man didn't look too happy when Duarte made him call the manager in Kansas City and say he had the van. He gave the fat mechanic a hard stare until he admitted that he had bought the van knowing it was stolen. The U-Haul manager from Kansas City was shouting over the phone. Duarte figured there would be a U-Haul franchise open in Lafayette in the next few days.

  The house he had driven past was quiet. There was no Camaro in the front yard as the mechanic had said, but there was a work stool and a few rags where it looked like someone had been repairing a car.

  Duarte finally parked the rented Cobalt two houses away and walked down the deserted sidewalk and straight up the path to the front door. He knocked hard and stepped to the side. He heard something inside the house like a radio or TV. There didn't seem to be an air conditioner running, and all the windows were closed.

  He tried the handle. Open. He pushed the door as he called out, "Hello."

  Immediately he sensed something wasn't right. He stepped inside and drew his Glock before his brain registered exactly what was wrong. He looked down the messy hallway, with magazines piled on the side and several empty bottles. The familiar odor was what had put him on edge. He had gotten used to it as a young man in the army. American soldiers might not have seen widespread combat in Bosnia, but the atrocities by both sides made up for the lack of U.S. participation. Duarte had been with units that uncovered mass graves or found slaughtered families on a number of occasions. His specialty with explosives as a combat engineer had given him the chance to work with a number of different units.

  Now he smelled death and knew exactly what it meant. There was a body in this house.

  He eased down the hallway, not positive he was alone in the old wooden structure. His SIG-Sauer was in his extended right hand and pointing anywhere he looked. He came to the living room and saw the two bodies on the couch. He noted quickly that they were a man and woman but went right past them to clear the rest of the house.

  Two minutes later, he was back in the living room, holstering his pistol. He was careful not to disturb the crime scene. The man was about twenty-three, with light brown hair. He had been hit in the upper chest four times. He lay at a slight angle. The woman, who was really more of a girl, about eighteen, lay at the opposite angle with her head touching the man's head. She had been hit in the neck. The blood from all the wounds had turned much of the old white sofa dark brown.

  With the TV screen in front of the couch, the bodies looked like a young couple on a date watching TV.

  Duarte looked for the phone to make sure the 911 call went to the right police agency. This case was turning bloody, and Duarte was no closer to the answers that he needed.

  31

  PELLY WASN'T HAPPY WHEN HIS BOSS CALLED HIM AT DAWN. HE had heard somehow that the ATF agent was on his way to Lafayette, and he wanted the fat mechanic silenced. He also wanted Pelly to stop Duarte if he could find him.

  With no traffic, Pelly had made the drive from New Orleans in under two and a half hours. But he was still annoyed.

  Pelly waited until a middle-aged man with a young boy had hooked up a rental trailer to his pickup truck and left the old U-Haul building where the heavy mechanic worked. Now there shouldn't be anyone else inside the office. He didn't like the idea of going back on a business arrangement, but Staub had insisted, and he had a point. There was no guarantee the mechanic would remain silent for long.

  He waited in the small parking lot for several more minutes, then walked quickly to the front door and ducked inside.

  The office was empty again, so he pulled his small Beretta from his waist and turned toward the garage bay. Stepping inside, he didn't see the mechanic, so he leaned down and spotted the man's legs on the far side of the same van that had been stolen. The fat man still didn't notice him.

  Pelly stepped farther into the big bay, the pistol dangling at his side.

  As he was about to call out, he heard a deafening blast, and the window of the van next to him shattered. Instinctively, he fell to the hard floor of the garage and searched for the sou
rce of the shot. A second booming blast blew holes in the side of the van just above his head. It was a shotgun. He barely heard the racking of the slide over the ringing in his ears. He scurried to the rear of the van and stole a peek to the back of the bay. Somehow the mechanic had surprised him.

  Wedged in between two shelves of parts, the fat mechanic had a pump shotgun up and scanning the bay. Pelly picked up an old air filter and tossed it to the front of the van on the side away from the mechanic. The man turned toward the noise and fired again, racked the slide of the weapon, and fired blindly again.

  Pelly saw him fumble in his front pocket for another round and knew the shotgun was empty. He took the moment to rush the man. He had his pistol up, but didn't fire. Instead he wanted to make sure the shotgun was out of his hands while it was empty and the man didn't expect an assault.

  Pelly threw himself into the giant man as the mechanic's girth seemed to swallow him up. Pelly wondered if the man had any bones in his huge body as he was enveloped by fat. The shotgun clattered onto the floor and the mechanic bounced off the wall, then stumbled away from the gun. Pelly was lucky the giant didn't fall on top of him. He would've had a hard time wiggling out of that situation.

  Now Pelly stood over the fallen behemoth with his gun out, but not pointing at the man.

  The mechanic, panting, flat on his back, held his hands in front of him. "I'm sorry. I had to tell him."

  "Tell who?"

  "The other guy. He didn't offer me any cash, but I could tell he'd hurt me if I didn't tell him who took the truck."

  Pelly realized he was too late and would have to explain things to the boss. He didn't speak, just pointed the Beretta at the man's blond head and squeezed the trigger three times. It was nothing personal. Just business.

  ***

  After telling the local cops all he knew about the house, Alex Duarte had found out that his source of information, the fat mechanic, had been found shot to death in his rental shop. Duarte had already told them about Cal Linley, so now it looked like the Louisiana cops had four bodies that were tied together. That was a big deal.

  To Duarte the real worry was whatever was in the crate that was worth killing four people over. The more he thought about it, the more concerned he became.

  He had called Lina as he left Kansas to tell her he was on his way to Lafayette but gave no details. He didn't like sharing information with someone who didn't return the favor.

  He didn't intend to stop until he had answers to his questions.

  He knew this case had some deeper meaning.

  32

  ALEX DUARTE WAS HAPPY TO TURN IN THE LITTLE COBALT NOW that Félix Baez had driven a DEA Bronco from New Orleans to meet him at the crime scene. He had briefed the DEA man on what he knew and endured his countless questions about why he had not been included from the start.

  He had listened to Félix's theories of how Lina was in New Orleans with Colonel Staub for all kinds of lewd reasons and finally said, "Maybe she's working another angle of the case."

  "No, bro, she's giving him that pussy."

  "I don't know, Félix. She seems to be pretty interested in her job. She knows something she's not telling us."

  "She's an FBI agent; that's what they do." He scowled out the window as they looked for the third rental place on their list. "Just something about that babe. She's got a butter face, but, snap, her body is tight."

  Duarte looked over at his friend. "Butter face?"

  "Yeah, you know, man, everything she's got looks good but her face."

  "I don't think that's too fair."

  "It's not fair she's fucking the colonel either."

  Duarte shut up, knowing he wasn't making the situation better. On Moss Street he noticed a Ryder truck backed in the front of a motel called the Cajun Inn. The yellow truck was smaller than the U-Haul he had seen earlier in the day. He slowed the little Cobalt as the hotel came up on his right.

  Félix said, "What 'cha doin', bro?"

  "Just noticed that rental truck. The way it's wedged in the front like that."

  "C'mon, I'm already trusting you enough to go to the rental places with you. Let's not waste time on wild-duck chases."

  "Goose chases."

  "I was raised in Miami. I couldn't tell the difference between a duck and a goose. I don't wanna chase either. I wouldn't mind getting back to New Orleans and keepin' Lina from makin' a mistake."

  Duarte gave in and sped up instead of turning into the motel.

  Duarte looked over at the truck as they passed. He had a feeling he was making a mistake, but Félix had a point. They could always come back.

  ***

  Pelly drove his own rental car far behind the older Ford Bronco that the ATF agent, Duarte, and his partner, Baez, rode in. He had followed Duarte from the house where they had recovered the crate. Pelly was patient. He'd know when he had a chance to act. It had taken Pelly a good thirty minutes to figure out what the two men were doing. Then he realized they were looking at truck rental places. This was one smart cop. He knew, probably because of the dead mechanic, that they had lost their van. This guy thought ahead.

  Pelly smiled, enjoying the challenge of a man who knew his business and how to handle things. He had heard from the men he hired that the ATF agent had moved like a cat when the fake robbery went down in New Orleans. Now the man had their scent.

  Pelly had called Staub but could tell his boss was involved in something else. His guess was that the colonel had a scent of his own. He had not personally seen the FBI woman. In a way, it was a relief to see Staub interested in a woman under normal circumstances where he didn't have to whip her or cut something off to be satisfied. In another way, Pelly was not happy that the man was distracted from business again.

  Colonel Staub had hardly listened when Pelly told him that Duarte was looking at rental companies. Staub was convinced they were quiet enough to hide their activities and that the extra cash they had given the manger of the Ryder rental store would keep his mouth shut. He told Pelly to use his judgment and hung up. What the hell did that mean? It meant that whatever he did, Staub would have a reason to blame him if something went wrong.

  Pelly saw the old Bronco slow near a hotel a few blocks ahead. The sign out front read THE CAJUN INN and had to slow himself so he wouldn't creep up on the federal agents. Then the Bronco took off again.

  As Pelly got closer, he saw what had caught their attention. A Ryder step van, just like the one they had rented for Ike to take the device to Houston, was parked in the small hotel's lot.

  Pelly slowed his rental car. It couldn't be. No one would be that stupid. He touched the automatic pistol in his waistband and pulled into the lot. He wouldn't call Staub on this just yet.

  He'd just use his judgment.

  ***

  Colonel Lázaro Staub stood on the tiny balcony of Lina Cirillo's hotel room at the Marriott in New Orleans, smoking his last Camel. Lina seemed somewhat fanatical about her dislike for cigarettes, so he hadn't pushed it and stepped outside while the FBI agent freshened up.

  Staub had not been blind to the signals the FBI agent had been throwing his way since he had arrived in New Orleans. He also realized that Félix Baez had been interested in the odd-looking FBI agent, too. It was obvious that any attention she showed him bothered the DEA man tremendously.

  While Staub had no real sexual interest in the woman, he did see the value in playing along. She might know something he was not aware of. He had heard the phrase "Pale Girl" used in a conversation and felt it would be beneficial to learn the meaning of this code name.

  Physically, Lina was too skinny and fit to interest him. She didn't have nearly the right girth in her breasts, and her face lined up like a kid's drawing. Besides, he didn't think she would respond to the type of domination he would be interested in showing her.

  After a few minutes in the bathroom, Lina stepped out onto the balcony and looked out over the city.

  "Looks like Katrina didn't hurt the Quart
er too much."

  Staub nodded, dropping his cigarette and snubbing it out on the concrete floor. Stepping closer to her, he said, "This is where the white tourists come. Of course the government protected it." He placed a hand on her back and started to rub.

  She looked up into his eyes and smiled.

  He felt nothing from it.

  Lina said, "You think there was anything in that container besides pot?"

  He shook his head, "Not unless it was something more valuable, and that is doubtful. What do you think, my dear?" He moved his hand to her shoulder and slid in closer to her.

  "I have no idea. Duarte seems convinced."

  "I think this case is over except for the singing of the fat lady. Soon I will return to Panama and you to your job in Washington." He looked into her eyes now and said, "Perhaps we should make use of our time wisely, no?"

  She didn't move, but didn't answer either.

  He decided to keep asking questions. "Why are you here from Washington anyway?"

  "Just helping."

  "But why not a local agent?" He went to kiss her, and she stepped back, holding up her hand.

  "Because I know when to say no."

  ***

  The clean, professional atmosphere of the Ryder truck rental center was in sharp contrast to the dark and dingy U-Haul franchise where the fat mechanic had told Duarte about his scam and was later found dead. After trying to reason with the clean-cut manager here, Duarte secretly hoped the same fate might await him. It wasn't like the sandy-haired man of thirty-five was part of the case or vital to any testimony or had even done anything wrong, so Duarte certainly wouldn't use any of his special techniques on him, but the man still had an annoying tone.

  "I understand you need information," said the man, "but I will not divulge anything to you unless you have a warrant."