LeBlanc leaned out so he could see the other two boats and make sure they had turned for port, then turned back to Banderas. “So tell your bosses that tomorrow morning we’ll go back out bright and early, and if your plan with these hi-tech transponders isn’t total crap, maybe we’ll find something. And tomorrow morning when you’re eating breakfast, you can thank me for keeping you alive. Because, my friend, if we did what you want us to, we’d all be dead by morning.”
Banderas said nothing, just leaned over and angrily slapped the power button on the transponder to ‘off.’
Twenty minutes later they passed within two hundred yards of Shabby Island, well within the effective range of the Celeste’s transponder. If it had been on.
Chapter 43
Wednesday/Wednesday Night
On Rte. 15 to Bangor
Hugo and Diego, being the more experienced, went after the cop. Hugo drove. Diego sat with a laptop open on his lap, watching the tracker dot as it moved north on Rte. 15. They had driven Rte. 15 half a dozen times now, taking notes on good ambush locations, noting where the rural highway was deserted and empty of houses. They had discussed waiting until full dark, but finally agreed that if they lost Finley in the dark, not knowing the back roads, he might evade them, tracker or no. No, it would be better to take him during daylight, if you call it daylight with all of this goddamn rain.
Finley was driving leisurely north on Rte. 15 and they followed, keeping far enough back so that they only caught occasional glimpses of the police cruiser, using the tracker to keep tabs on him. They drove past Ron’s Auto and crossed Airport Road – although they did not know it, Jacob and Katie were together not more than a mile away from them – and then crossed over the Holt Pond Bridge, where the abortive effort by Mateo’s go-fast boat had reached its bloody conclusion.
Finley sped up a bit and continued north on Deer Isle and Hugo increased speed to keep within the tracker’s range. They followed Finley across Causeway Beach to Little Deer Isle, and less than a minute later crossed the bridge to the mainland and through Sargentville.
“About four miles to 175,” Diego warned.
This was the first significant point. If Finley went straight on Rte. 15 towards Blue Hill, Hugo and Diego would turn left on 175 and race north, through the little town of Penobscot, then take Rte. 199 northeast until they rejoined Rte. 15. There they’d wait for Finley to come to them and ambush him on a long, lonely stretch of 15.
If instead Finley turned onto 175, they would accelerate to overtake him before he reached Penobscot and take him out there. That stretch of 175 was isolated; they could take care of Finley without serious risk of witnesses. Nice and tidy.
Diego watched the laptop screen intently as Finley approached the junction of routes 175 and 15.
______________
In North Harbor, Alejandro and Javier carried their weapons out to the car in duffle bags and stowed them in the back seat. They drove to the harbor area, careful to stay within the speed limit, then parked alongside the road that led to the Finley home. Javier produced a pair of binoculars and scanned down the street, but could not quite see the house. They settled in to wait.
Thirty minutes later, Danielle Finley drove past them in her blue Toyota Prius, her lights on to pierce the gloom of the storm. Javier nodded. “That’s the wife,” he said in satisfaction. “Let’s wait until the kid gets home from school, then go in.”
Neither man had children. It never occurred to them that school had been cancelled due to the storm and that Calvin was already home.
They settled in to wait, chatting idly about what they’d like to do with the wife before they killed her. Banderas was right, she was a looker.
______________
Frank Finley decided that he would like nothing more than a good cup of coffee, and he knew just the place. When he reached the junction of 175 and 15, he stayed on Rte. 15 to the town of Blue Hill and the Bucklyn Coffee Shop, which served some of the best coffee in Downeast Maine.
The rain thickened and he put on his headlights, humming to himself. He checked the rearview mirror, but there was nothing to see. Only fools and cops were out in weather like this, he told himself. And only God can tell them apart.
______________
“He’s turning toward Blue Hill,” Diego said, an edge of excitement in his voice. Diego was the youngest of the four killers, but hardly the least experienced. Excitable, but good in a fight.
“Bueno!” Hugo said, and turned left onto Rte. 175 and pressed the gas pedal down hard.
Now it was a race to see who reached the killing zone first.
Hugo drove fast down the narrow country road, concentrating hard through the rain and enjoying himself immensely.
Five minutes later, near the edge of the tracker’s range, Diego frowned. “He’s stopping in Blue Hill.”
“Note the location and look it up on Google maps,” Hugo told him.
Diego typed in commands and then zoomed the screen in so he could see what businesses were in Blue Hill. “Looks like he’s stopping for coffee at a café in Blue Hill,” he muttered.
“Good,” countered Hugo. “Gives us more time to get into position.”
But he didn’t slow down.
______________
Finley glanced at his watch and decided he had time to stop at Bucklyn Coffee and enjoy it rather than just order it to go. He ordered a thick, rich Kenyan coffee and a delicious looking cream-filled pastry, then took a booth along the front wall. He mused for a bit about his career. No matter how this ended, he thought, it was time to talk to Honeycutt about a transfer. Get out of undercover work, get some time in as a regular field agent. He’d miss parts of it, and he was good at it, but it was time to move on.
He checked his watch again. Time to go. He drained the coffee cup and tossed out his napkin and plate, then strolled to his patrol car and hit the road, back tracking to Rte. 15 and heading north again. His fingers traced lightly over the AR-15, reassuring himself the ammo magazine was there.
He glanced once in his rearview mirror. Nothing.
______________
Hugo and Diego sped through Penobscot, braked hard and took the right onto Rte. 199.
“I love this car!” Hugo said gleefully. He had never driven an Audi A6 before.
“We’ll hit 15 in about two miles,” Diego said. “The tracker’s got him coming out of Blue Hill on 15, but he’s going slow.” He nodded to himself. “We’ll be ahead of him. Plenty of time to get in position.”
The plan was simple and lethal. Once the tracker showed Finley about half a mile away, they would pull out of Rte. 199, turning north on Rte. 15. They would drive slowly, much slower than Finley, forcing him to pass them. When Finley tried to pass, Diego – in the back seat with an AK-47 – would hose him down from ten feet away.
They had used this tactic many times before. It always worked.
______________
Finley peered ahead through the rain, but couldn’t see anything. He passed Range Road. Next “major” turnoff would be Merrill Turner Road. He was still miles from Orland, and a long way farther from Bangor.
And he still hadn’t heard anything. He hesitated for a moment, then reached for his phone.
______________
Forty miles away, Petty Officer First Class Nathan Johnson leaned forward to stare at the sensor reading from the LUNA drone he was flying. Gritting his teeth, he brought the LUNA around in a tight bank and swept up Rte. 199 again all the way to the Rte. 15 junction.
Nothing.
“Fuck!” he gritted.
Ensign Kauders was on him in a flash. “What is it, Johnson?” he demanded.
Johnson’s shoulders slumped. “It’s the goddam rain, sir. It’s too heavy. I can’t see a bloody thing.”
Ensign Kauders blinked. “Wait, you mean you lost the other car?”
Johnson nodded glumly. “I think it’s still there, sir, but I can’t find it in this slop.”
Ensign Kauder
s looked a little panicked. “What about infrared? Do you get any heat signatures?”
Johnson bit off a sarcastic reply. One might get away with sassing an Ensign, but then again, one might not. “Already tried that, sir. No joy. The rain is so heavy it is masking any hot source at ground level.”
Ensign Kauders rocked back on his heels, thinking furiously.
“How high are you?” he asked the Petty Officer.
“One thousand feet, sir,” Johnson replied, dreading what he knew was coming.
“If you took her lower, you’d have a better chance of picking up their heat source, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Johnson replied. “But, sir, the winds are all over the place. If the LUNA gets hit with a wind buffet much lower than a thousand feet, I might not be able to save it.” He paused. “Hell, sir, we don’t even know for sure these are the right guys. This could be Tom and Jane on the way home from work.”
Kauders quickly weighed the risks, but then stopped himself. Screw it, he thought. I’m not going to be the guy who got Finley killed because I was nervous about crashing a LUNA.
“Take her down to one hundred and fifty feet, Petty Officer. Go infrared, but keep your video camera going. Prowl Rte. 199 for half a mile back from 15, then go back to 15 and go south until you reach Finley’s car. Once you see his car, turn around again and go north until a mile past the 199 junction. If it’s them, they’ll be skulking around there somewhere.”
“Sir,” Johnson protested half-heartedly. “The winds can –”
“Do it, Johnson!” Ensign Kauders said firmly, then he grabbed his phone and pressed speed dial.
______________
Every fiber of Finley’s body was on high alert. The warning signs had been coming one after another. First Honeycutt’s warning, then Police Chief Corcoran sending him on a last-minute errand to Bangor, and finally the empty rifle in the car he’d been assigned.
Finley pressed his speed dial. It rang once and Honeycutt answered.
“Hey, Howard,” Finley said. “I’m getting kinda lonely out here without a regular drone report.”
That had been the call he made just as he left North Harbor. Honeycutt had agreed to provide support in the form of two ground cars and the Coast Guard’s lovely LUNA drone.
The Coast Guard had been tracking a car that had followed Finley out of North Harbor, but had split at the junction of Rtes. 175 and 15, when Finley had gone to Blue Hill. The last report that Finley had gotten was that the car was just passing through Penobscot.
“Frank, we lost them,” Honeycutt said bluntly. “It’s the damn storm – plays hell with the drone’s sensors.”
Finley took his foot off the gas pedal and let his car slow. “Tell me what you know, Howard.”
“We lost them about four minutes ago, just as they approached the junction with Rte. 15. They can turn north or south there. If they turn south, they’ll run right into you.”
Finley swore under his breath and braked to a full stop, peering anxiously through the windshield. He couldn’t see a damn thing through the pounding rain.
Then there was a loud buzzing sound that sounded like a cicada on steroids. It approached quickly and flashed past him. He didn’t so much see it as have an impression of shadow and movement – fast movement – overhead.
“Howard!” he shouted into the phone. “Something just buzzed me! Tell me it’s the Coast Guard drone, because if it’s not, it means the Cartel is using some damn sophisticated surveillance and I’m going to turn around and run for it.”
“Hold one, Frank.” The phone went quiet and there was a moment’s pause. But while the phone was dead, the giant cicada sound returned and sped away to the north.
“Crap!” Finley pulled the AR-15 from its rack and charged the action, then checked his service pistol to make sure there was a round in the chamber. He put the pistol on the seat beside him and set the rifle back in its rack, but left it unlocked.
His phone made a rasping sound. “Frank? Frank?”
“Yeah, Howard?”
“That was our drone,” Honeycutt assured him. “Okay? The Coast Guard’s drone just flew overhead your vehicle. Good news is that there is no vehicle – repeat, no vehicle – between you and the 199 junction. Can’t see any heat signatures on Rte. 199 within half a mile of the 15 junction, so we think they’ve already turned north on Rte. 15. They are ahead of you, Frank. They’ve either pulled off and will wait for you to reach them, or they’ll go slow and when you try to pass them, they’ll ambush you then.”
Finley frowned. “Howard, has the drone actually found them?”
“Negative,” the older man said. “It is going down Rte. 15 now, flying low and trying to spot them using infrared.”
Finley shook his head. “Tell them to abort! They’re flying too low. If I could hear them, the bad guys certainly will. Abort!”
He could hear Honeycutt shout an order to someone, then: “Okay, Frank, the drone has pulled away and will circle about a mile out until you need it.”
It occurred to Finley that controlling the drone through Honeycutt was not a great idea. He should have had a radio linked directly to the Coast Guard so he knew what the hell was going on. He looked at the cell phone in his hand. Or…
“Howard, can you patch the drone operator through your phone so that he’s on with us in real time? Relaying orders through you is too slow.”
Honeycutt blew out air. “Shit, should have thought of that. Hold on.” There was another moment’s pause, then a crackle and Honeycutt was back. “Frank, I’ve got Ensign Kauders on the line. He is supervising the drone operator. I believe you’ve met.”
“Good to have you here, Ensign Kauders. Howard, where are the ground cars?” Finley asked.
“I’ve got one car about two miles behind you to the south and catching up. I’ve got another man in a car five miles to the north and coming towards you. The road is partially flooded up there, so they’re moving slow.”
Finley tried to picture it in his mind. The town of Orland was about four miles north of him, so the DEA car coming from the north had not yet reached the town. There was only one major turnoff between him and Orland that the hit men might take, but there were numerous, unmarked dirt roads that ran off for miles into the woods. Once back there, the drone would never find them in this storm.
Simple solution: he had to bring the bad guys to him.
“Howard, here’s what I’m going to do.” Even as he explained his plan, he dropped the car into gear and raced towards the Rte. 199 junction. He knew this road like the back of his hand. The junction sat at the top of a low rise. Going north, the ground sloped down for two miles, at least. If he could make it to the top of the rise and they saw him, he might be able to lure them back.
Flooring it, he sped as best he could through the rain until he reached the Rte. 199 junction, then braked hard, doused his headlights and turned on his emergency blinkers. Even in the storm, the blinkers would be visible for some distance. To his right, down a long driveway, was a trailer that had been mounted on a permanent foundation. Across the street to his left was an old vegetable stand, just as he recalled it, still boarded up, waiting for warmer weather. He got his hat and rain slicker, holstered his Glock and grabbed the rifle and the spare ammo magazines. He carefully turned off the interior lights, then opened the door and sprinted across the street and took position, crouching behind the vegetable stand.
And waited.
______________
Diego studied the tracking data on the laptop. Finley was finally moving faster, now. “Keep it slow,” he cautioned Hugo. “We’ve got to make sure he overtakes us.”
“You better get in back now,” Hugo reminded him, eyes in his rearview mirror.
Diego nodded and moved agilely into the back seat, where he checked the AK-47 one last time, then reached in front and picked up the laptop. In the rearview mirror, Hugo spotted some headlights crest the rise a mile or so behind them.
Then the
headlights went out. A moment later he could dimly make out emergency blinkers flashing wetly through the gloom.
Hugo frowned in confusion. “Diego, check the tracker,” he ordered. “Where is the bastard?”
Diego hurriedly dropped the rifle and opened up the laptop. “He’s stopped again.” He turned around and looked through the rear window. “Can’t tell for sure, but I think that’s him up on the hill there. Got his flashers on.”
Hugo swore under his breath. Every minute they drove took them further and further away from their target.
“Do you think he just broke down?” Diego asked uncertainly.
Hugo had no idea, but he couldn’t kill his target by driving away from it. He swung the wheel hard and turned around until the car was heading south on Rte. 15. “Get ready, if it’s him, we are going to do it right now,” he warned Diego.
He slowed the car to thirty miles per hour and they drove towards the flashing lights. In the back seat, Diego lowered the rear window and readied the AK-47.
______________
From his vantage behind the vegetable stand, Finley watched as the suspect car made a U-turn and came towards him.
“Howard, did you see that? They made a U-turn! They’re coming back,” he shouted into the phone. His heart was racing now and his mouth was suddenly dry.
“Drone is over the car,” Honeycutt assured him.
“Keep it high enough so that they can’t hear it,” Finley warned.
“It’s almost one thousand feet,” Ensign Kauders chimed in. “With all the rain, I don’t think they can hear much of anything.”
“Where are the backup cars?” Finley demanded.
“South car is about two minutes out,” Honeycutt told him. “North car is about five minutes.”
North Harbor Page 25