The Supremacy License

by Alan Lee

Manny tucked his thumbs behind his belt. “You think uniforms capture desperados? Don’t seem to work for Collin Parks. Maybe I put on the uniform, I start moving slower. Sir.”

  Stackhouse smiled the brilliant smile which landed her on the cover of magazines. “I’ll be on my way. So long, beautiful marshals.”

  Bert beckoned him. “Follow please, Martinez.”

  “What is—”

  Bert was already moving toward one of the private conference rooms in the distant corner.

  Manny growled. He snatched his sports coat, circled Noelle’s desk, and whispered, “You are an angel from heaven, Noelle Beck, and I am in your debt.”

  “Don’t make promises to a girl you won’t keep.”

  “Eres perfecta y te amo,” he said and she felt her cheeks burn. One reason she kept her computer monitor situated between them—so she could focus. She was good and she knew it and she was on her way up the NSA ladder. And ogling Manny didn’t fit into her plans.

  Manny followed the marshal into the back. To one of the interrogation rooms, which surprised him. Two individuals waited at the stainless steel desk, a man and a woman, and they stood when he entered.

  Bert indicated him and said, “Special Agent, Director, meet Deputy Martinez.”

  The man and the woman shook Manny’s hand. Names went un-offered. They bore no uniform but wore the unmistakable stoicism of law enforcement—face like a shield, a no-nonsense preparedness.

  The Director did not smile but he nodded his head. “Deputy, we need a few minutes of your time.”

  “Sure,” said Manny. “You’re a director? With the Marshals? Operations division?”

  The man didn’t answer.

  The Special Agent said, “Marshal Warren, with your permission, we’re going to speak with Deputy Martinez privately.”

  Marshal Warren expressed silent displeasure. He didn’t enjoy being dismissed, and so quickly. This was his office after all. But he’d agree to the stipulations beforehand and his morning had filled. He snapped a nod and closed the door behind him, using more force than necessary.

  Alone with the two senior officials, his curiosity piqued, Manny draped his jacket across the chair and they sat. The Special Agent noted the tattoos on Manny’s forearm and she surreptitiously adjusted her stack of papers to get a second glance at his governmental headshot. The photograph didn’t do him justice.

  “For the sake of anonymity, our names aren’t important. Not yet.” The woman’s brown hair was cut short, not long enough to tuck behind her ears. Vibrant green eyes. An old scar running from temple to cheek. No wedding band. Looked like she’d been a Marine. “I’m a Senior Special Agent for the FBI and I direct the Joint Federal Investigations Commission. We’re small. How small? I am the only full-time staffer for JFIC. No Christmas parties, no commemorative badges, no office potluck—we’re lean and mean. I coordinate independent agents nationwide. Think of them as sleeper cells, ready to be activated for temporary assignment.”

  The man cleared his throat. He was blocky, with a square jaw, square nose, and thick hands. Buzz cut. He wore the suit of a career serviceman—plain black and two inches too big, a look Manny despised. Men should dress like men, not circus tents. He said, “I’m here on behalf of a five-person oversight board, constituted by members from the DEA, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and the Federal Marshals.”

  The woman said, “We’re here to discuss an assignment with you.”

  “You know about me?”

  “We do. I cull a list of federal agents. You were at the top and suddenly you are needed.”

  “How many sleeper cells in JFIC?”

  “Three. You’d be the fourth. As I said, we’re small. And new.”

  “You activate sleeper cells when needed,” said Manny, working it over. “Sounds like Mission Impossible.” He was a long admirer of both Ethan Hunt and Tom Cruise, great Americans.

  “Close. But that’s international espionage.”

  “What is JFIC?”

  “To be blunt, we apprehend high-priority fugitives. Domestic.”

  Hope stirred in Manny’s chest. He was good at his job and he enjoyed it, but he’d reached the phase of life where he wanted more. Not a promotion—ugh; he’d take a pay cut to reduce the paper. But more action. More purpose, greater challenge. “I’m in,” he said but she cut him off.

  “Don’t agree yet. I’ll provide vague details, give you a few hours to think it over, and then we meet again tonight. I wish I could grant you more time but we’re on a clock.”

  The Director nodded his blocky head.

  Manny’s gaze bounced with energy between the two. “I’m not good at much in this world but one of the things I do well is throw men into prison. And women. I love this country. Protecting it keeps me sane.”

  “Your patriotism is part of the reason we trust you.”

  “The other reasons?”

  “The marshal and sheriff both vouch for you, though they don’t know for what.” She spread her files across the desk like a fan. “I only work with operatives with an 1811 designation. I can get plenty of those. But not all of them…” She inclined her head. “…wear Armani shirts.”

  “Brooks Brothers,” he corrected her. “Although, if I had to buy an Italian export, it’d be Armani."

  “You see? Most men don’t care. I work with operatives who do, because not all situations are defused by a gun.” She indicated the pistol in his shoulder rig. “The world is changing. Correction—the world has already changed. Footage from cell phones and twenty-four-hour news stations shrink the shadows in which we work best. We’re the good guys, but much of what we do is better left outside the courtroom of public opinion. The more we can do quietly, the better.”

  Manny didn’t say so, but he agreed. He thrived in shadows.

  She had a crisp straightforward way of speaking. Constant eye contact. “You can imagine how difficult it is to find an operative who…” She slid a file forward, a photograph of Manny clipped to the corner. “…has experience training with SWAT in Los Angles. And…” She slid others across the table. Manny didn’t bother to look. “…worked as a Vice detective in Compton, earned commendations after volunteering to go behind the lines with a Special Forces detail in Central America, speaks fluent Spanish, currently works with the local Fugitive Task Force, and wears a sports jacket the way you do. Which is a skill unto itself and far more useful than most men realize.”

  “Plus,” said the Director, running a thick finger down his list. “This impressive arrest record. You apprehended half the East Coast’s most wanted list. I spoke with Sergeant Bonham from Los Angeles. He told me about your involvement with the North murders, and that you exposed a corrupt Supervisory Special Agent at the FBI’s Los Angeles field office. I remember that damn fiasco.”

  The Special Agent arched her eyebrow. “I read the classified file. Pretty clever.”

  Manny dismissed it with a wave of his finger. “She talked in her sleep. Bad habit for a corrupt FBI agent.”

  The special agent smiled to herself, enjoying Manny’s quiet confidence. One of those intangibles which can’t be taught.

  She said, “If you agree, you’ll take a polygraph. And drug test. Tonight.”

  “Of course.”

  “You kicked the heroin habit?”

  Manny paused. She surprised him—her research had been thorough. He wanted to deny it. Or at least tell her it hadn’t been a habit; it had been a few isolated lapses in judgment. He wanted to argue with her, demand she admit sometimes the government needed men with baggage. That hard work required hard men and those men didn’t come cheap or clean. Insist that, with a childhood like his, some coping mechanisms were to be expected. Tell her she could back down or get the hell out of his office. He let the antagonism swell like a tide, and then recede.

  He said, “Clean for ten years. Drug test will confirm.”

  The Director cleared his throat. “Two things in your profile confuse me, Deputy. Why did you turn down
the offer to join the Marshals’s Special Operations Group last year?”

  “No great reason.” A half shrug. “Didn’t want it to conflict with other interests. Although some days, standing in a court room, again, I regret my decision. What’s the other thing?”

  “Why do you live with a private investigator? Mackenzie August. Unusual for a man with your salary.”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “So?”

  “He’s my only one.”

  “What about family? We found none.”

  “Right,” said Manny. “That’s why I live with August. He’s like family for me.”

  “But surely—”

  “Where I live doesn’t matter, Director.”

  “Who you live with matters a lot, Deputy.”

  Manny listened to the words and heard the question underneath—why do you sleep on the floor? He realized they’d been vetting him for several days, most likely monitoring his house and thoroughly checking his finances. They knew he had a fine salary and a fat savings account, and that he volitionally chose the floor. He didn’t begrudge the question—he knew his living arrangement looked unusual, even more so because Mackenzie’s father Timothy lived there too, and the group looked after Kix, the toddler. But even though he didn’t begrudge the question, he didn’t enjoy it either. Largely because he didn’t have a great answer.

  Manny made a subtle motion expressing frustration, a readjustment of his shoulders. He hardly moved but it spoke volumes. The Director leaned backwards in his chair and the Special Agent smiled to herself again. With a trained eye, dangerous men were easy to spot and she possessed such an eye. She had a feeling one of the reasons Martinez lived with his friend was because he hated financial obligations. His credit was so clean it bordered on being suspicious, but that suited her purposes perfectly.

  Manny said, “I’m not going into details. Understand? I’ll tell you this—I need to live there. I don’t use heroin but I need…what’s the word? Big fancy word for friendship.” He snapped his fingers. “Camaraderie. Right? Living at that house keeps me straight. You looking for a complete human being without flaws, amigo? Look elsewhere.”

  “I have no use for such human beings,” she replied. “Deputy, pending your blood work and signature, I am content with your track record and your training, enough to offer you the assignment. And, as the Director mentioned, we have a delicate situation and a clock we’re running against.”

  “Give me the details.”

  The Director cleared his throat again. “JFIC is a top secret Special Access Program, hidden within the FBI’s intelligence hierarchy. We are unacknowledged and unreported by the FBI, nor any other agency. Very few know of its existence for deniability concerns. Once you sign and pass the polygraph, you’ll be designated as need-to-know and upgraded to our nation’s top security clearance. Until then we tell you very little. Which is for your protection, as well as ours.”

  She took over. “Here are basic operational details, Martinez. Our oversight board becomes aware of a target or situation threatening to become volatile. And our government hates messes. Most messes, they want gone and don’t want to know how or why. So I am contacted. I use the considerable resources extended to me by all five agencies aforementioned to do my research and make a decision; is this a job for my department or not? I handle fugitives who are high-profile, high-risk, politically connected, or extremely dangerous—not the kind advertised on the FBI’s most wanted list. There is a secondary list, a worse brand of monster. These are fugitives the public is better off remaining ignorant of, and sometimes these targets are best handled without the use of overwhelming force.”

  “When a scalpel would be better,” said the Director. “Rather than a hammer.”

  Manny asked, “Assassination?”

  “No. Not usually,” she said. “If I decide the target fits JFIC’s criteria, I select one or more of our agents and we get to work. The operation is buried deeply within the veils of secrecy politicians provide to keep their hands clean. Don’t ask, don’t answer.”

  “What can you tell me now?”

  “The DEA believes a high-profile fugitive is hiding locally. Inside a fortress, for lack of a better word, in the Allegheny Mountains south of Roanoke. The marshal’s fugitive task force hasn’t been alerted because we’d like it handled quietly. Your assignment would be analysis and apprehension. Or elimination.”

  Manny nodded. The hairs on his arm stood. “Let’s go.”

  The Special Agent slid a card across. She’d written a number on it. “I insist you think it over. Call me tonight at 9pm. You’ll remain a marshal. That’s still your job. But when JFIC calls, you answer. This is a one-way ticket.”

  He winked. A grin. “A ticket with less paperwork.”

  4

  Manny motored into an old lot off Centre Avenue NW, a street populated with abandoned warehouses. This part of town near the rail lines contained corroding junkyards and industrial storage and waste. His Camaro rumbled through the gravel to the back of the lot to a collection of cars at the rusted fence. Two old Nissans and a gleaming black Lexus. He stepped out of the machine and breathed in deeply, savoring the scent of train diesel and coal.

  A kid in a red hoodie appeared from the loading dock. Hands in the hoodie pouch, likely holding a pistol.

  Manny leaned against his car and said, “Tell Marcus I’m here.” The kid, maybe still in his teens, went back in.

  From under his Randolph Engineering aviators—made in Massachusetts—he idly inspected the place. Although the owners intended to give the impression of forgotten storage, he saw hints of precaution and security. New locks on the doors. Reinforced windows. Hidden security cameras. Small windows in concrete walls to provide firing angles. Fresh gravel for heavy trucks.

  Inside the loading dock before him, he knew, there was fifty million worth of cocaine. Maybe another million in firearms.

  He could storm the place. Call the marshals and the sheriff, make the biggest bust on the East Coast in half a decade. Get his name in the papers, maybe a promotion.

  But what fun would that be?

  Marcus Morgan emerged to greet him. Tall guy, thin but strong. Black slacks, black shirt, silver buckle and watch. Kept his hair close and wore a thin mustache and soul patch, like Michael Jordan. Deep voice. “Marshal. Must be important, bringing your unwelcome ass here.”

  Instead of answering, Manny pressed a button on his key fob and the trunk opened. Grunting with the effort, he hauled a man out. The man wore a red hoodie and his hair was done in short cornrows. He’d been gagged, hands and ankles tied, and he dropped helplessly onto the ground

  “Aw shit,” said Marcus Morgan, crossing his arms.

  From his boot, Manny produced a knife. The startled man emitted a moan. Manny sliced the binds and the gag, and slid the knife back into his boot. The man on the ground flopped loose like a fish.

  Two sentries in the warehouse came to watch.

  Morgan nudged the man on the ground with his loafer. He said, “Morning, Diego. Don’t get up yet.”

  Diego tried to stretch but it hurt. He winced against the sun and rubbed his wrists. “This piece of shit kept me in there all night, Marcus. All the damn night. Gimme a gun and I’ll kill his family. He don’t know me.”

  Manny pressed his boot against Diego’s face and pushed it into the gravel. From under his arm he produced his heavy revolver.

  Marcus Morgan lowered to a crouch by Diego’s head. He spoke softly. “Diego. I wouldn’t say I’m friends with the marshal. But I ain’t his enemy either. Call it mutual respect. And he brings you to me inside his trunk? Makes me nervous.”

  “Bitch a got’damn marshal? Let me kill him, Marcus, you let me—”

  Manny pressed harder with his boot on Diego’s face and the words stopped.

  Marcus Morgan scooped a handful of gravel and let them drop one by one. “Why’d the marshal grab you?”

  “I don’t…I didn’t do nothing!” The man
’s words sounded funny, his cheeks squished together. “I swear to God, Marcus, I don’t know what he’s doing! He took Milo Wiggins too.”

  Morgan shifted his gaze. “That true? You took Milo?”

  Manny nodded, keeping his eyes on the warehouse. He spun the revolver forward, caught it, then backwards and caught it, like Doc Holliday in that western movie he liked. He still hadn’t spoken, which he knew tended to unnerve those he wanted unnerved.

  Morgan said, “Damn, marshal. Milo works with the Atlanta guys. Atlanta don’t like losing enforcers.”

  “I told Milo not to come back. Pendejo didn’t listen. Atlanta guys, they’re just like the rest. Only listen to force, not warnings. So I beat the hell out of him and took him in.”

  “And Diego here?”

  Manny released his boot from Diego’s face and he reached into the Camaro’s trunk. He pushed aside the body armor, the ballistic shield and helmet, the baton, and came up with a clear baggie. Inside it, a gray powder. He handed the baggie to Morgan. “Found your boy with heroin.”

  Morgan squeezed the bridge between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He sighed and held the bag out to Diego. “Where’d you get this?”

  “Marcus, this is bull, man. That guy don’t—”

  “Where’d you get it?”

  Diego began to sweat. Nothing good happened when Marcus Morgan spoke quietly. “Jeez, Marcus. Okay, whatever. Couple small time guys. Asked me to move a little. Not much, Marcus, I swear.”

  “We don’t touch heroin.”

  “I mean, I know, man, but—”

  “And we oust those who do.”

  “Oust? Marcus, you know, what the hell? We sell product. Product is product. I don’t get it, man.”

  Marcus Morgan dropped the bag so that it landed on Diego’s face. Diego wanted to get up but didn’t dare. He’d never been this close to death and he knew it. Morgan pointed with his finger. “See my man, here? See Manny the marshal?”

  “Sure, Marcus, I see him."

  “Ever wonder why he doesn’t get on the radio and bust us? Call in a thousand cops? Wonder why I trust him and he trusts me? See, me and the marshal got a deal. An understanding. We both know that drugs are forever. Can’t be stopped. You understand? We live in this fallen world ever since Eve ate that got’damn apple, right? People break bad, it’s gonna happen. If I close up shop and leave, what’ll happen next? Someone else show up soon. Guaranteed. Someone worse. Nature hates a vacuum, Diego. You know what that means?”