Blood in the Water

by Jack Flynn

  ‘One day,’ Javier continued, ‘this young lieutenant was out on a patrol, and he was captured. A week later, three of the towns where my soldiers were hiding were bombed to rubble. A week after that, I received a package in the mail. It contained the lieutenant’s severed ear. It was wrapped in a note that read, “He told us everything this ear ever heard.”’ Carpio chewed a slice of cheese thoughtfully.

  ‘What is your point?’ Soh asked.

  ‘I never had any reason to question this soldier’s loyalty, but loyalty may not be in the front of a man’s mind when his ear is being cut off his head.’

  Soh considered this for a moment. ‘Juan Suarez has already experienced tortures worse than most men can conceive of,’ he said. ‘He has his orders if he is captured, and I believe he will follow them.’

  ‘And if not?’

  Soh picked up the last slice of cheese on the table in front of Carpio. ‘I have a contingency plan.’

  Thirty-Seven

  Joe Konicki didn’t go into the doctor’s office with Diamond. He had planned to, but when they pulled up to the medical building near the University of Massachusetts in South Boston, and he saw the sign with the doctors’ names listing their specialties as ‘Obstetrics and Gynecology’, he decided that she would probably be safe in the building; he preferred to wait outside.

  He sat in his car in the parking lot fighting the urges for the first fifteen minutes. He was on his tenth day without a cigarette, and the withdrawal had him losing his mind. Some of it was physical – he knew that his addiction to the nicotine was a major part of his need – but he could temper that with nicotine patches and gum. As he sat in the car, he’d already powered through three pieces of the expensive chewables. But no amount of nicotine could wipe away the psychological addiction. His hands fumbled for something to do, and continually touched his face and mouth out of habit. The need to engage in the same repetitive motion that had comforted him for over fifty of his sixty-five years was overpowering, and in the end he gave into it.

  He climbed out of the car, into the cold, and walked up the street to the nearest convenience store. A pack of Marlboro Lights was nearly ten dollars in Massachusetts because of all of the punitive state taxes that had been largely successful in reducing the number of smokers in the Commonwealth. He’d have gladly paid twice that at the moment, though, and he forked over the cash.

  He opened the cigarettes in the convenience store and took a pack of matches from the counter. He knew he couldn’t smoke in the car – his girlfriend Malinda was the reason he had tried to quit, and if she caught a whiff of smoke in there, he’d be on the couch for a week. So he ducked around the corner and leaned against the building, shivering as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. Who wanted to live forever anyways?

  From the alleyway where he stood, around the corner from the parking lot, he could see the door to the doctor’s office, so he knew that he wouldn’t miss Diamond if she came out. The cigarette felt so good, and he wasn’t sure when he would be able to sneak another one, so he smoked two as he stood there.

  By the time he got back to the car, he was frozen through. He turned on the engine to get some heat going, and turned on the radio for company. The cigarettes had been so satisfying, he could feel his shoulders relaxing for the first time in a week and a half. He coughed up a small amount of phlegm, and there was something familiar and soothing about the loose rumble in his chest. Maybe the cigarettes would take a year or two off his life, but maybe they wouldn’t. And in the end, life was short anyway, and there was no reason to live uncomfortably. He’d find a way to explain it to Malinda so she’d understand.

  He took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, giving into the sense of relaxation the cigarettes had given him.

  He didn’t even feel the blade slide across his throat. It was honed, and MS-13 soldiers were skilled with their knives. At first, all he felt was the warmth on his chest as the blood poured over him. It felt as though the car’s heater was blasting hot air on him. Then he realized he couldn’t breathe. He grabbed at his throat, and felt the blood cascading down his neck. Probing further, he felt the opening, and, to his horror, the slice clean through his esophagus. He tried to scream, but it was no use. He was starting to lose consciousness when he heard the back door of the sedan open, and someone exit the car. He hadn’t even thought to look in the back seat when he’d gotten in, and he knew now that someone had gotten in and waited for him to return. He survived only long enough to catch a glimpse of the tattooed man crossing in front of the car. The man didn’t look back.

  Ten minutes later Diamond O’Connell exited the doctor’s office. She walked with an air of relief – the bleeding was normal, and the doctor had assured her that the baby was fine. All she needed was a little rest. She felt like a weight had been lifted from her; she couldn’t remember ever having been as scared as she was before talking to the doctor.

  As she turned toward the parking lot, a grey van pulled up alongside of her, and the door opened. At the same time, a man covered in tattoos came up from behind and grabbed her, pushing her toward the van. She started to protest, but the man with the tattoos flashed a knife in front of her face. It was covered in blood, and she instantly went silent.

  The commotion was enough to catch the attention of some of the other people on the street, who yelled and looked around for a security guard or a police officer. One person even called 911, but by the time the police arrived, the grey van was gone. The two officers weren’t sure how seriously to take the reports; people often think they see something wrong when there is actually a logical explanation short of foul play. As they stood in front of the medical office, debating next steps, they heard a panicked scream from the parking lot. They hurried over and found Joe Konicki slumped over the steering wheel of his car, covered in blood.

  At that moment, they no longer questioned the seriousness of the kidnapping reports, and they called back to the station to alert the detective squad.

  Thirty-Eight

  The effeminate man looked out of place in the dark and dingy warehouse. He was dressed in a suit that must have cost several thousand dollars. It was dark, but not black, and it had a subtle pattern to the fabric. A soft, white shirt that was so clean it seemed to glow was opened to the third button, revealing a hairless chest. His long hair had been lightened, and it was swept back in an elaborate coif.

  Javier Carpio stood before him, slovenly and wrinkled. He didn’t care; he could crush the man with one swing of his hand if necessary.

  But such violence was unnecessary and unwise at the moment. Six larger men, also impeccably dressed and armed with assault rifles, surrounded the dapper man. Four of Javier’s own men, not associated with T’Phong Soh, all also heavily armed, backed Carpio. If violence broke out here, it was likely that most of them would end up dead.

  The man was Syrian, according to legend, though that seemed to be a matter of popular speculation rather than fact. His name was known only to a very few. Whatever his original nationality, he was said to have connections to all of the regimes in the Middle East. There were even rumors that he occasionally did business with the Israelis, though this, too, was more rumor than fact.

  He gave a signal, and one of his men brought forward a large metal case. It was heavy, and the table that separated the two groups of armed men groaned as it bore the weight. The armed man stepped back, and the man in the expensive suit stepped forward. He unlatched the container and opened it.

  Javier peered over the table and examined the weapon. ‘The FIM-92 Stinger,’ the man lisped.

  ‘US made?’ Carpio asked.

  The man shook his head. ‘It is the same model developed in the States by Raytheon, though.’ He had a soft voice with a slight accent that was indeed difficult to place. ‘It was manufactured in Turkey,’ he continued, ‘under a license between Raytheon and Roketsan. It has the same specifications as the US-made models. And it is as effective.’

  ‘Range?’r />
  ‘Five miles, give or take.’

  ‘Guidance?’

  ‘It uses infra-red guidance that tracks aircraft. Or it can be adapted with laser painting for stationary targets.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I have two now. Give me a month, and I can get two more.’

  Carpio grunted. ‘I do not have a month.’ He reached out and touched the missile launcher. If they’d had greater access to these types of weapons in El Salvador in the early days of the rebellion, they might have ended the war. ‘Cost?’ he asked.

  ‘Sixty thousand. American.’

  Carpio’s eyes narrowed. ‘That seems high. I have heard of them sold for less in the past.’

  The man in the suit shrugged. ‘If you have someone who can deliver two almost immediately for less than sixty, I suggest you do business with them. They cost the American government forty. A fifty percent mark-up does not seem unreasonable.’

  Carpio nodded after a moment’s calculation. ‘Agreed. And the boats?’

  The dapper little man rubbed his chin. ‘Those were more difficult, but I have managed to find you two Coast Guard Defenders. Twenty-five feet, with artillery mounts both in the front and in the back.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘I can outfit them with one mounted fifty-millimeter machine fore and two M-60s aft. They will be able to repel anything your rivals have.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘One hundred thousand.’

  ‘For both?’

  The little man shook his head. ‘Each.’

  Javier was silent for a moment. It was more than he wanted to pay, but they both knew he had no bargaining position. He stuck out his hand and the man in the suit shook it.

  ‘Good.’ The man nodded and one of his suited bodyguards closed the case and took the missile and launcher back. ‘We can arrange a place for the payment this week. Where would you like them delivered?’ He gave a hint of a smile. ‘Based on your past, I would hazard a guess that they may be headed for El Salvador?’

  Carpio shook his head. ‘I will take them when I pay.’

  The smile on the man’s face disappeared, and it was replaced by a look of confusion. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes, here,’ Javier responded without hesitation.

  The man frowned. ‘I can provide shipping,’ he said. ‘As I said, it is safer that way.’

  Carpio shook his head. ‘I will pick them up when I pay. I want them here.’

  The man’s expression morphed again, and now he looked genuinely concerned. ‘If these were ever to be used in the United States and traced to me …’

  ‘We have already made a deal,’ Carpio said.

  ‘It is not worth the risk,’ the man repeated.

  ‘You will take the risk.’ Carpio drew himself up to his full height, towering over every other man in the room. All of a sudden, his physical presence seemed even more of a threat than any of the firearms in the room. ‘I have paid men like you for years,’ he boomed in a deep baritone. ‘Men who supply the means of killing without ever accepting the risk that comes with that. We have a deal, and you will supply the missiles and the boats. Otherwise there will be consequences.’ He glared into the man’s eyes, and even with armed guards behind him, Carpio could see the fear on the man’s face. It was no longer a fear of what would happen if the missiles were traced back to him; now it was the fear of what might happen to him if he did not supply the giant standing before him with what he wanted.

  ‘Seventy thousand for the missiles,’ the man said after a moment. ‘And one hundred and twenty for the boats. If I am going to take the risk, I will charge more.’

  Carpio glared at the man. ‘Agreed,’ he said finally with a nod. ‘And if there is any more discussion or any issues with delivery, you will have a problem.’

  Thirty-Nine

  Agent George Martin greeted Kit Steele in the Belle Isle Marshes parking lot. She had never met him before, though they had talked on the phone. He looked younger than she’d anticipated. He was assigned to a joint task force investigating gang activities that crossed state lines. MS-13 had become the focus of the task force’s inquiries because it was the most active and coordinated gang in the United States. It was also the most dangerous. He and Kit Steele were ostensibly on the same team, but because they were on different task forces there was an element of competition to their relationship.

  Three police cruisers were in the lot, as well as two unmarked law enforcement vehicles. Two officers were talking to an older woman with a large dog.

  Martin shook Kit’s hand and dispensed with any pleasantries. She was OK with that; she preferred to get directly to business. ‘Special Agent Steele, you asked me for the file on T’phong Soh the other day,’ he said. ‘I thought you might want to know about this,’ he said.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Looks like we got a war brewing. The woman over there saw three guys grab an MS-13 soldier. She got a pretty clean look at all of them.’

  Steele thought about the file Martin had sent to her, which she had passed on to Cormack. The chances were high that the incident was the result of her having passed on the file. The information was sensitive, and if anyone found out what she’d done it would likely end her career. She kept her expression impassive. ‘They took him in the parking lot?’

  Agent Martin shook his head. ‘They grabbed him over here,’ he said. He led her down one of the trails until they came to a small clearing. A large patch of snow was stained a deep red. ‘We don’t know if he was dead or not. If he wasn’t dead, he was pretty badly injured.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Based on the description of the tattoos on his face, the guy who got grabbed was Juan Suarez. He’s Soh’s number two. Out of El Salvador by way of Los Angeles. He’s an up-and-comer. You read the file. From what we’ve heard, Soh’s looking to take control over the harbor, and maybe even the whole MS-13 organization. If that’s true, he’s relying pretty heavily on Suarez, so the fact that Suarez was jumped is significant.’

  Steele squatted down, getting a better look at the bloody snow without touching anything that might be useful in the investigation. ‘Could be,’ she said noncommittally. ‘Of course, these MS-13 assholes are mixed up in a lot of different shit. There’s no way to know this is the beginning of a war. It could be a one-off.’

  Martin frowned. ‘Not likely. The old lady saw the guys who took him. Two of them looked like longshoremen from central casting. Irish to the core.’

  ‘You just described half the people who live in Boston.’

  Martin’s frown deepened. ‘You know about the attack on the Mariner the other day. Cormack O’Connell was almost killed, and the reports were that several heavily tattooed men were seen at the pier just before the place was lit up. You really think it’s not all related?’

  Kit Steele shrugged. ‘You said there were three guys. What did the third guy look like?’

  ‘That’s the clincher. He was a short Italian, in an expensive-looking overcoat and a fedora. Sound like anyone you know?’

  Steele was silent for a moment. ‘Andolini,’ she said at last.

  Martin nodded. ‘To the extent he’s ever had any loyalty, it’s always been with O’Connell.’

  Steele looked out over the marshes. ‘You asked me to come out here,’ she noted. ‘You could have called me.’

  Martin walked over and squatted next to Steele. ‘You and I have never met. I thought it might be useful to have a face to face.’

  She turned and looked at him. ‘Well, here’s my face.’

  He looked uncomfortable for a brief moment, but recovered quickly. ‘What’s your specific interest in all of this? You working an angle?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s classified.’

  He gave her a wry, fed-up smile. ‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘You reached out to me, I played ball. Now it’s your turn.’

  He was right, she knew. There was a code among the federal law enforcem
ent agencies. If you asked someone for cooperation, there was an expectation and understanding that information would flow in both directions. If she refused now, there would be no more information forthcoming, and that would make her job more difficult. She mulled her options silently.

  ‘Vincente Carpio,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘The serial killer?’

  ‘We’ve heard in cross-chatter that Vincente’s brother Javier may be working with Soh. I’m worried they may try to spring Vincente.’

  ‘Break him out of prison?’ Martin mused. ‘How would they even do that? Seems a little far-fetched.’

  ‘He escaped once before.’

  ‘Yeah, but that was human error,’ Martin said. ‘And at the time, no one knew how dangerous he was. That’s not gonna happen again.’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ Steele agreed. ‘But you never know.’ She stood up. To the east, in the distance, she could see a plane headed toward them. It was huge; probably a 747, with two levels and 600 passengers. It was sweeping in low and looked like it could crash into them. She looked to the west and saw one of Logan International Airport’s runways just a few hundred yards across the marshes. Beyond that, the narrowest part of Boston Harbor separated East Boston from South Boston, and the downtown skyscrapers. The federal courthouse was just visible across the harbor, its rounded glass facade reaching to the sky, reflecting the winter sun, low to the south. It was amazing to contemplate how closely everything was packed around what was a very narrow harbor.