The Old Farts In Miami

by Richard F Hill

Chapter 1

  18 Years Ago

  Rob Andrew’s jaw moved in the familiar mechanical motion as he chewed on the now flavorless piece of gum. He squinted against the sunlight shining through the windshield to the action unfolding ahead. Part of him wanted to be out there doing his part, but he’d promised to stay in the vehicle.

  The analysts and agents of Rob’s private investigation firm, Andrews Investigative Services, had stumbled across one of hell of a situation involving a Cuban arms cartel while tracing 25 illegal AR-15’s that had turned up in a gun store. The store owner thought he was getting legal weaponry and was really pissed when he learned he’d been taken. Not wanting to get the ATF or FBI involved for personal reasons, he hired AIS to find the source of the guns. Rob agreed to do it, but insisted that the Miami Police Department be alerted when the time came.

  It had taken nearly three months to backtrack all the serial numbers of the guns, through each sale and transfer. Rob’s people were unable to fully track all the numbers since US laws only required gun store sales to be registered. But finally there were a total of 12 weapons that had supposedly come from the same source, a dealer in South Miami. He’d gotten the guns in a straw sale from an outfit working out of a warehouse nearby. And he still had the address.

  Rob’s operatives had covertly watched the warehouse for two weeks, during which time they filmed customers of all types going into the warehouse and coming out with rifles, or packages that could be pistols. Most of these were young punks, obviously gang members.

  Now the time had come. Rob had handed over everything he had learned with the agreement that he could be on scene when MPD pounced. Thankfully, the head of this operation fell into the hands of his buddy, Sergeant James Marshall, who did what he could to pull some strings. Marshall insisted, however, that Rob observe the operation from the relative safety of an SUV.

  Watching the olive drab figures of the SWAT team maneuvering around the warehouses, closing in on Marcello Mendez for his date with justice, Rob felt the relief of sitting back knowing that he’d only had to follow the bread crumbs and build the case. Some other poor schmuck would have the privilege of filling out ten reams of paper forms as things went through the system. They could keep that mess.

  And yet his hand was on the door handle as he began to leave the safety of the SUV. His Glock 17 was in his hand as he pressed his back to the hot metal siding of the nearest building. Sweat was already beading on his brow, but the adrenaline rush and excitement of action was building up. He mentally begged Marshall’s forgiveness and began inching forward. Scanning the SWAT team’s size and position, Andrew shook his head. He didn’t think they had enough men.

  Working in a triangular formation, they were reaching the warehouse where Mendez and his men should be. Andrew knew his information on the location was good, and he also knew this would probably be their last chance before the cartel slipped out of the U.S. jurisdiction and away from prosecution. Today was supposed to be a large cash shipment out of Miami before Mendez fled to Cuba and holed up in his multi-million dollar complex. Andrew’s case had been the result of Mendez and his crew’s use of the black market and straw buyers for weapons to bring in firepower to the Miami street gangs. It really hadn’t been too hard to track these guys down.

  Four SWAT guys positioned outside the main double doors, two took up the single entry-exit, and the rest took cover in an arc around the front. Only three were sent around to the back. Andrew spit out the flavorless gob of gum and grabbed a fresh piece, shoving the wrapper in his pocket as the sweet flavor burst through his mouth. A lopsided grin slid on his face as he ducked around the buildings and headed to the rear of the warehouse. As he approached the right side, he saw one man stationing himself by another door as a second continued around back. More than likely the third was on the left, meaning only the one man was headed to the back.

  Rob was glad he had the body armor that Marshall had insisted he wear. Though he was in his fifties, he could still keep up and his slim stature helped him fit in, but running was hard, as hard as the chunk of shrapnel in his right hip. As he turned the back corner, his concern about the police strength proved true. Marcello Mendez was surrounded by four men trying to quietly hustle him to a hole being cut in the back fence, and on into a white Suburban idling on the other side. The SWAT guy was three steps in front of Andrew and lifted his M-16 to sight in on Mendez. And then came the whole reason Andrew could never follow the rules of police work after his time in ‘Nam played out. He instantly thought, “Don’t say it! Just shoot the bastard! Shoot!”

  “Freeze! Police! Put your hands up!”

  And that was enough. The four men turned and loosed a fusillade of shots that hit the officer and he dropped to the ground, his rifle still in his hand. Even with his body armor, one of the rounds had hit him in the neck ripping through the cervical vertebrae, killing him in an instant.

  Rob rolled back around the corner and carefully peered out as two of the men continued pushing Mendez forward. The other two continued shooting towards the downed officer and the corner Andrew had ducked behind. Gunshots were also coming from the warehouse.

  Rob sighed, tightened his grip on the Glock and rounded the corner, popping both guys in the head before ducking down to grab the dead officer’s rifle. Sighting on Mendez’s head, Andrew pulled the trigger, ripping off a 6-round burst, hitting his target in the right jaw and ripping his face off as the second shot hit him in the right temple. Blood and gray brain matter splattered the man beside him, just before he, too, fell victim of a .223 hole in the forehead. As he stood, the other officers came running, trying to surround the Suburban. Someone fired out of the passenger window as SWAT began shooting at the tires and front seats of the vehicle. One of the bullets shattered the safety glass of the rear window, leaving a big enough gap for the face of a young boy to look out. His eyes were filled with terror and heartbreak as he stared at the gruesome form of the nearly headless Mendez.

  “Papa!” The kid screamed as the driver hit the gas and sped away.

  Two of the cops shot one last time at the back tires as the vehicle rounded a corner. The Suburban’s description was quickly called into the aviation unit, with a warning that a child was in the vehicle. Sighing, Rob looked at the carnage on the ground. Mendez was dead, as were several of his lieutenants. Part of him felt the satisfaction of his part in ending this cartel’s reign, but he knew something else. He was sure that he just killed Marcello Mendez right in front of his son’s eyes.

  Rob nodded to the others as they began to process the scene and call in the forensic techs. He’d never hesitated in killing a man who was the enemy, or one who orchestrated the deaths of so many, but the involvement of innocence was always haunting. The case was closed, both his and the one the feds in Miami had separately been trying to build. It was a good day for the home team.

  Rob shook his head as he turned the Glock and M-16 over to Sgt. Marshall, and then walked back to the SUV, thinking about why he just had to have another career and couldn’t retire quietly after the Army. Not to mention the hell his friend James Marshall would pay for Rob’s involvement in the take down. They both would spend far too much time being interviewed and testifying. The complications of fighting the bad guys in the civilian world after the things he had experienced across the pond always surprised him. And yet, he kept fighting, trying to do his part. Eventually, though, he’d soon be too damn old for this shit.