by John Lansing
* * *
The passengers on the Bella Fortuna were rushing to fasten their life jackets when two Coast Guard cutters closed in on either side of the yacht. Mateo and Peter ran forward, caught, and tied off heavy ropes to the bow of the yacht.
* * *
Deak sent a 911 radio call to the captain of the Hua Yong and the tugboat captains.
* * *
The sailors on the Chinese ship jumped dockside, sprinting for the exits.
* * *
The tugboat crews scrambled to untie and put distance between themselves and the ship as they powered, full-throttle, toward the open sea.
* * *
Only the high-pitched Klaxon could be heard echoing over acres of containers, and sixteen-wheelers, and docked ships waiting to be off-loaded.
* * *
The nuclear-laden dirty bomb exploded.
* * *
The sound was muted. The Hua Yong shuddered. A white funnel of water sprayed from beneath the tanker’s midsection. The double steel hull had taken the bulk of the explosion. The ship creaked and slowly listed.
* * *
Jack was flying through the air, his life hanging by a thin nylon rope, trying not to heave as the lieutenant expertly winched him up and into the body of the chopper. Jack unbuckled the harness and strapped himself into a seat, happy to be on board. Happy to be alive.
* * *
The Hua Yong took on water, creaked, and groaned. As it tilted onto its side, hundreds of colorful multiton steel containers, filled with millions of dollars’ worth of electronics, shuddered and scraped. Thick metal straps snapped. The upper stack of containers started to slide and then cascade, pulling down row after row, falling like stacked dominoes, splashing into the channel.
The three F-16 fighter jets streaked overhead and circled the carnage.
* * *
Jack reached Agent Hunter on the phone. He could see Trent on the ground and Roxy cuffed to the chain-link fence. “I need Sukarno’s destination.”
Hunter turned to Roxy. “I’ve got Bertolino on the phone; he’s circling in that Coast Guard bird and needs some help.” Roxy glanced at the orange and white Sikorsky chopper circling their position, wiped her mouth with the back of her free hand, and remained military-stoic.
Hunter got in Roxy’s face. “Not the first time a woman’s been taken down by male power brokers. You can still do some good. Something to make your father proud. Jack needs to know where Sukarno Lei is headed.”
Roxy stood frozen with the realization that life as she knew it was over. That had always been a possibility, but damn, she’d believed they’d succeed. Roxy had signed on because she loved the symmetry of the plan. She’d gotten caught in the emotion and let herself be played like a fool.
“If Sukarno makes it to Indonesia,” Hunter pressed, “there’s no extradition treaty with the U.S. He’ll be living large on his private island while you rot in prison.”
Roxy spat blood as she glanced at Trent’s body, bleeding out on the pavement, feeling little to nothing about ending his life. She saw the fleeing cars jammed bumper to bumper around the port. “Traffic’s backed up,” she shouted, fighting the blaring Klaxon and the beeping horns. “Jack can beat him there. Sukarno is driving to a chopper, headed for Santa Monica Airport. His private Learjet’s waiting. Tell Jack to take the fucker down.”
Agent Hunter turned her back on Roxy and raised the phone to her mouth. “Jack—”
“I heard her,” he shouted over the thrumming of the chopper’s rotors. Captain Deak pulled up and headed north.
Agent Liz Hunter looked at her phone, made a decision, and called her boss. Special Agent Flannery was in transit, not surprised Hunter was in the thick of it, and listened intently while she brought him up to speed.
* * *
Seven black-ops Huey Helicopters thundered across the parking lot and set down, blocking the port’s entrance.
* * *
Agent Hunter, Roxy, and Trent’s dead body were swept up and loaded into the belly of one of the black beasts. It lifted up and away as soldiers in hazmat suits, deployed, ran through the Long Beach Harbor gates toward the downed Hua Yong.
Thirty-four
Captain Deak flew over Santa Monica Airport as Sukarno’s red Bell chopper’s rotors spun to a stop. Sukarno stepped onto the tarmac, gave a hefty tip to the pilot, and strode toward his Learjet sitting on the edge of the runway, waxed, fueled, and ready to fly. He was relieved to be free of Roxy and wasn’t sure how to process the loss of Trent, but his blood pressure rose in excitement as he closed in on the finish line.
Sukarno was all but strutting by the time Captain Deak set his chopper down. The Coast Guard lieutenant approached the pilot of the Bell chopper and placed him in custody without incident.
Jack jumped to the tarmac and ran toward the Learjet just as the stairs powered up and slammed shut. Through the cabin window, Sukarno saw Jack running past the jet. His face was a mask of blind anger as he ordered the jet’s pilot to take off.
Jack assumed a shooting stance thirty yards in front of the Learjet. He stared down the pilot as the two jet engines started to rev. Jack signaled with the barrel of his gun for the pilot to shut down.
Sukarno appeared in the cockpit window, red-faced with fury. “A million dollars says you don’t have the balls to run him down,” he challenged the pilot, who didn’t like his tone but liked the sound of a million. “Gun it. He doesn’t have the balls to shoot.”
As if reading his mind, Jack fired one shot into the air.
Sukarno leaned over the pilot and nudged the joystick forward. The jet lurched toward Jack, who stood tall. “Back off,” the pilot shouted as he braked, taking control of the craft as the engines started to whine. “Two million,” he stated, making sure the stunt was worth the risk.
“Done!”
The whine of the jets revved to a deafening pitch. The burnished craft closed the distance to Jack in a heartbeat.
Jack fired and fired again.
The engine on the right side of the jet exploded. Followed by billowing smoke and the sound of metal tearing and grating.
The single powerful jet engine on the left side forced the plane into a violent spin. The right wing scraped the runway and snapped off, sending shrapnel flying.
Jack dove and rolled out of death’s path.
One of the jet’s tires exploded.
The plane jerked and flipped over, coming to a metal-wrenching, spark-flying rest, upside down. Fuel leaked and the second engine burst into flames.
The pilot shut off the power, unstrapped, and fell toward the roof of the cockpit, rapidly filling with smoke. He roused a dazed Sukarno and pulled the emergency lever on the fuselage door.
Sukarno pushed the pilot aside and was the first to lift himself onto the damaged fuselage.
Jack grabbed Sukarno by the collar and slid him off the scorched metal. The pilot jumped onto the runway and was immediately subdued by Captain Deak.
Sukarno got to his feet and swung a fist. Jack sidestepped the slim man and unloaded from the ankles. Sukarno’s head snapped back, but he refused to go down. He threw a surprise side kick that connected with Jack’s back. The pain rolled down Jack’s spine, but a tight smile creased his face. “Bring it on,” he said.
Sukarno might have been dojo-trained, but Jack was a street fighter. Sukarno calmed his breathing, took a spinning step in, and Jack hammered him with a solid right to the face, flattening the man’s nose. The flow of blood choked him; his watering eyes momentarily blinded him.
Jack unloaded a thundering punch to the terrorist’s gut. The blow knocked the wind out of the man’s body and sent Sukarno down onto his hands and knees on the tarmac, crawling in a circle, gasping for breath.
The flames were building on the wrecked Learjet.
Jack dragged Sukarno away by his collar a second before the ten-million-dollar jet exploded in a brilliant flash of fire and fury.
* * *
An
LAPD black-and-white rolled onto the scene, lights flashing, and the cop, brought up to speed by Captain Deak, cuffed Sukarno while he lay flat on the ground. The cop, who happened to be in the right place at the right time, read Sukarno Lei his rights. Since he was the cop of record, booking an international terrorist would make his career. Jack Bertolino and Captain Deak weren’t glory hounds. They were more than happy to share the action.
* * *
Five gray sedans sped down the runway and surrounded the hangar as ten FBI agents deployed en masse.
After a few terse words with the uniformed officer, who made certain they spelled his name correctly, the feds grabbed Sukarno and secured him in the rear of a sedan with armed guards on either side.
Captain Deak fielded a call as Santa Monica fire trucks sped onto the runway, sirens blazing, light bars flashing. The first responders unspooled their hoses and blasted the conflagration with high-powered streams of water.
Special Agent Ted Flannery stepped out of the last government car, took in the carnage, and shook his head as he caught Jack’s eye. He nodded acceptance, a wry smile creasing his face as he approached the men.
“You want to take a ride, Jack? That’s not a question. We’ll pick up something to eat on the way. You’re going to be a while.”
“Not until I find out what happened to the Bella Fortuna.”
Deak, who’d just been briefed, spoke up. “Two Coast Guard cutters intercepted the yacht a hundred yards off the Queen, on a direct path. The F-16s were ready to blow her out of the water. Our men tied her off and changed her heading, and as soon as she runs out of fuel, she’ll be towed to shore.”
Jack nodded his appreciation. “And the Queen?” he asked Flannery.
“The bomb squad was able to disarm the device. Agent Hunter is already in transit. Her prisoner, Roxy Donnelly, requested an interview. With you personally. Any idea what that might be about?”
“Not a clue.”
“She won’t talk to anyone until you have a face-to-face. Go figure.” Flannery glanced at Deak, “After you’ve checked in with your people, we’ll want a go-round. Washington will need to get your story on record.” Flannery handed him his card. “Good work, Captain.”
Deak turned toward Jack, hand extended. The men shook, and then Deak pulled him into a bear hug. “You’re the man, Jack Bertolino.”
Jack looked at Deak and grinned, “We did good.”
Jack shook the lieutenant’s hand, turned, and walked toward Special Agent Ted Flannery’s government-issue and his ride to FBI headquarters.
Thirty-five
Jack sat in an FBI interrogation room. They all looked similar. No frills, the point being to make the suspects so uncomfortable they’d spill their guts. The rooms were generally wired for audio and video. This was no different. If Roxy wanted privacy, she was out of luck.
Jack looked up from the steam rising from his black coffee as the door opened and a handcuffed Roxy Donnelly was led into the room. Her face was ghostly white, bruised, and swollen; her red hair was matted and hung limply off her shoulders. The agent moved her to the chair opposite Jack and exited.
“Switch chairs with me, Jack?” she whispered.
* * *
“What did she say?” Flannery hissed, watching from his office on the seventeenth floor of FBI headquarters. Agent Hunter was sitting across the desk, but the monitor was turned so they both could view the interrogation. “What does she want?”
Hunter didn’t think his question deserved an answer; she responded by pointing toward the monitor.
They watched as Jack nodded, stood, and changed places with Roxy. The camera was now trained on Jack’s face.
“Son of a bitch,” Flannery shouted.
“Maybe we can get it from Jack’s side of the conversation.”
“Son of a bitch.”
* * *
Roxy looked like a woman in shock, but she was in total control. Her eyes were at half-mast, but she kept her head tilted and cupped her hand over her mouth like a defensive coach at a football game. No one on the other side of the camera could read her lips. “You signed on to find Luke Donato.”
Jack understood where she was going. Roxy had a lot of blood on her hands, and he wasn’t going to deal until he knew what she wanted. Then he’d make a determination. Jack was a strong believer in knowing when to give, to get. “I did,” he said. Keep it simple, keep the prisoner talking.
“I can tell you where the body’s buried.”
Jack’s gut twisted in a knot. He hoped Hunter hadn’t heard the exchange. It would be a harsh way to have your worst fears validated. Jack gave away nothing. “What do you want?”
“Luke left behind a bag of cash. It’s in an auto-pay account. Once a month a check is cut to Rush Street Care, and my father is guaranteed a clean bed and personal care until he dies. If there’s a surplus, they can use it to pay for the lights and keep the facility open. It’s a good operation.”
* * *
“I’m stopping this,” Flannery said rising to his feet. “I can’t hear a word they’re saying.”
“Sit down, Ted. We have one opportunity to get information before she lawyers up. If you don’t trust Jack, you’re in the wrong business.”
Flannery glared at Hunter, sat back down, and glanced at Jack’s stony face.
* * *
“I can’t promise,” Jack said.
“Yes, you can. The Mob can’t ask the feds for their bag of cash. It’s dirty money. But my father won’t know, and the government doesn’t need it. Nobody else is privy to what I’m about to tell you.”
“Did you kill Luke?”
“No.”
Jack was feeling a lie. It was clear Trent had killed the captain of the Bella Fortuna and the crane operator. If Roxy pinned Luke’s murder on Trent, and could also prove he’d killed the trawler captain, then the only death she’d be responsible for was Trent’s. Her defense could claim emotional duress. With her role in the terrorist attack, she’d be looking at spending the rest of her life in a federal prison, but it might save her from the death penalty. Who was he to play God?
“Who killed Luke Donato?”
“Deal?”
Jack had no problem giving to get when it served the greater good. But he had no issues lying to a killer. Jack gave an almost imperceptible nod. Could’ve been a twitch. He wasn’t going on record making a deal with a homegrown terrorist that could put him behind bars. But if he didn’t sell it, Agent Hunter would never be the same. Some things in life needed closure. It wouldn’t alter the result, but it might allow her to move on. Jack thought Hunter deserved that much. And while Jack would do what he could to protect Roxy’s father, he wouldn’t lie about the cash.
Roxy stared into Jack’s eyes. Trying to discern if she could trust this ex-cop who had destroyed her life.
Jack hit her with his best poker face.
Roxy blinked first. She had no choice. “Trent killed Luke Donato. Luke was on to us, and Trent put him down. Bullet to the back of the head. We buried him at sea. The coordinates were plugged into the cat’s GPS. If they’re not there, I can find it on one of the charts on board. There’s a key taped to the bottom of the engine hood.”
Jack stood up, nodded to the camera. An agent who was standing by opened the door, and he left Roxy in the barren room with the nightmare she’d created. He felt no pity.
* * *
Cruz jumped the fence at the dock in Marina del Rey where Roxy’s catamaran was moored. He stepped on board as if he belonged. He pulled up the teak cover of the engine and grabbed the key.
No one dockside paid him any mind as he stood at the wheelhouse, turned on the power, and downloaded the GPS record onto his laptop and a small thumb drive.
Jack had coached Cruz on the need for speed. It was only a matter of time before the feds descended on the boat, and he didn’t want the information, if it was valid, lost in bureaucratic wrangling.
Five minutes later, Cruz was cutting thr
ough traffic on Lincoln Boulevard in his Mini Cooper, giving Jack the lowdown. “The time and date are correct. The coordinates match Roxy’s story. I left the charts on board; we can pull them up on the computer. She may be lying about who pulled the trigger, but this feels like the real deal. I’ll text you the coordinates.”
* * *
Jack’s phone dinged, and he read Cruz’s text. These conversations were the toughest part of the business. There was no good way to tell someone a loved one was dead. Most people knew on a primal level before the officer opened his mouth, but it was the spoken words that were life-altering.
Jack walked into Flannery’s office and sat down next to Agent Liz Hunter. Her face was stoic, but her eyes filled before Jack shared what he knew. After Jack handed Flannery the coordinates of where Luke’s body had been weighted down and lowered into the Pacific, the agent promised to immediately coordinate plans to retrieve Agent Luke Hunter’s body, told Hunter how sorry he was, and exited his office.
Hunter and Jack sat in silence for a while.
“How did he die?” she finally asked.
“A single bullet to the back of the head. He never saw it coming.”
Hunter gave that serious thought and then: “It’s better than some.”
Jack waited for her explanation.
“Ways to die. You know?”
“Yeah, I do, Liz. Our line of work and all.”
“Thanks, Jack.” And Agent Liz Hunter broke down and had a good cry. Jack gave her some time and then slid his arm around her shoulder.