by Alan Lee
Beck shifted on the floor to stretch her back and return circulation to her feet. “You’re not responsible for El Gato’s crimes.”
Manny waffled his hand. “Debatable. But I’m responsible for her future victims if I do nothing now. I make contact with Rafael, maybe he’ll talk.”
“If it doesn’t work, we can still apprehend El Gato at the airport, I suppose.”
“She’s not going to the airport,” said Manny.
“You know?"
“I’m guessing.”
“Then why would the Palace reserve a private plane on Saturday, the day after her brother’s release?”
He waved her question away, irritated. “To throw us off track. She knows we’re monitoring her.”
“The jet at Roanoke Airport’s a ruse? It was reserved through hidden back channels.”
“I don’t know, Beck. I’m thinking out loud and pretending to see things clearly. But it’s possible.”
Her computer beeped. She scanned the result. “Got a hit. Rafael García was mentioned in a note between the CIA and the Brazilian Intelligence Agency. Brazil held him briefly, two years ago, on suspicion of conspiracy during the election.”
Manny crouched beside her to peer at the screen. She pretended she couldn’t smell his cologne. He said, “Catalina mentioned Brazil’s election. Using Honduran banana crops to swing votes, or something like that.”
“That country is a wreck. Ready to collapse.”
“I spent time there when I was young. The García family makes their money disrupting elections, seems like.”
“Your breath smells like Christmas.”
“Wintergreen mints. Focus, Beck.”
“I am. Take a step backwards.”
Manny raised and nodded to himself. “Tomorrow, bright and early, we’re banging on the warden’s door. Flash our badge and license. I’ll go undercover as a prisoner until they release Rafael Friday. I have forty-eight hours to gain his trust and find out where El Gato plans to go. Once I do, I’ll contact you and you spring me.”
“That cannot be the best plan.”
“Based on what I find, we’ll alert Weaver. Maybe we detain him, maybe not. If Catalina herself picks Rafael up from prison, we’ll grab her then. But she won’t. Worst case scenario, we’ll stop them at the airport but at least then we’ll have caught two international terrorists. Or maybe I should kill him in jail…”
“Don’t be cavalier. We’re not assassins.”
“Don’t be naive. That is precisely what we are, when required. Think about it—we’re after El Gato. At the moment, she’s untouchable. We know she’s here for her brother. So we should make contact with him. Right? If he needs to die, so be it. Easy as that. That’s not cavalier, that’s charcuterie.”
“Charcuterie?”
“Means perfect. And delicious.”
She eyed him doubtfully. “I believe the correct definition is more—”
“Focus, Beck. We have a fugitive to catch.”
Her phone rang, startling them both. Beck’s eyebrow arched. “Weaver.”
Anger flared in Manny’s heart. In heaven there’d be no supervisors.
She put the phone on speaker and set it on the floor between them. “We’re here, Special Agent.”
“A situation has arisen,” Weaver said, sounding hollow and tinny. “A half dozen deputy marshals are gathering in Harlan, Kentucky. They have a warrant and plan on storming the Palace at midnight.”
“A half dozen?” Manny snorted. “That’s it?”
Beck said, “They’ll be killed.”
“I just got off the phone with the Marshal in Louisville. He told me to jump back up the FBI asshole I crawled out of. Good ol’ boy has stars in his eyes, thinking he’ll catch El Gato. I don’t know how he heard. I’m trying to get the Governor involved but it’s slow going.”
Manny glanced at his watch. Two hours from now. With a growl, he said, “They’re going to get killed, and suddenly this is a national incident and Catalina will vanish.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Manny took the pistols from his mattress and shoved them into his holsters. Grabbed his jacket. “I’m on the way. I’ll get there in an hour.”
“Dressed like that?”
He glanced down. He still wore the formal clothes for Catalina’s dinner invitation. “I’m about to save the lives of six deputy marshals. It’s important to look good doing it, right?”
“I’ll get my stuff.”
“No.” He flung open the door, nearly hitting her. “Stay here. Get started on the paperwork. I’ll be back around one in the morning.”
The door slammed after him.
Beck hit her fist against the carpet. What an infuriating pain in her neck. He’d be long gone, even if she tried to keep up. Her career had been running so smoothly—soon she’d be promoted out of Installation, assigned to Cryptanalysis and Exploitation. Her dream, back to headquarters. Except Manuel Martinez was going to get her demoted to sanitation.
For the phone’s benefit, she said, “Sinatra is heading to Harlan. Text him directly.”
“I will.” The line went quiet, other than Weaver’s keyboard clicking. After a long pause, “Sinatra’s impetuous, isn’t he. An asset and a liability.”
Beck nodded to herself. “Special Agent, does one of us outrank the other?”
“Good question.”
20
Gate City, Virginia to Harlan, Kentucky is sixty miles through curving country roads. Manny did it in forty-five minutes.
Harlan is small, nestled along the junction of Clover Fork and Martin’s Fork rivers, pinned in by mountains. A likable place, thought Manny, as he flew up 421. It held old world charm, reminiscent of the towns in black and white television shows he’d seen, like Andy Griffith and something about a Beaver. Late at night, the lamp posts were lit and the downtown looked like an oil painting.
Noelle Beck called him. “The Louisville Marshal went dark. Weaver said she’ll get him fired when this is done. I spoke with the Governor and he put me in touch with Harlan’s mayor, who owns the local funeral home. He rang enough phones to discover the Sports Cafe on Eversole Street has its lights on, but the doors are locked and there are official cars parked outside. That’s where the deputies are gathering, I bet, before heading to Pine Mountain.”
“How much intel do they have about the Appalachian Palace?”
“Not much, evidently, otherwise they wouldn’t try.”
Manny glanced at his phone. Beck pushed through the address of the Sports Cafe. He said, “They know who El Gato is?”
“She’s on a few most wanted lists, technically. The FBI must have a security leak. Somehow our surveillance of El Gato pinged in Louisville. With enough time, JFIC could back the marshal’s office down but these are boys out in the country, playing cops and robbers and they aren’t listening.”
Manny turned onto Eversole Street. His headlights shot through narrow corridors of the downtown and highlighted a man at the intersection.
He slammed his brakes, squealing. “Oh hell.”
“What?”
Manny shoved open his door and got out. The town felt empty but clean, like they were on a movie set. The man on the corner was a handsome man in his sixties. He wore a flat cap and trench coat, despite the evening’s warmth. His belt was white.
Manny said, “Hubert?”
Hubert, the Appalachian Palace’s steward and manager, peered at him a moment. He smiled then without humor. “Ah, Mr. Martinez. I’m very sorry to see you here.”
Manny read it all in Hubert’s face. The man knew. He knew about the deputies gathering to knock on his door with plans to arrest his guest, and he’d come preemptively with one goal—execute them. His hit squad would be efficient and thorough and then they’d vanish.
Manny protected the realm.
Hubert protected his guests.
“Is Catalina here?”
“She is not. Although,” Hubert said with a touch t
o his cap. “The same could be said about me.”
“Call off your squad. I’ll talk sense into the marshals. I’ll send them home, guaranteed.”
Hubert pulled the sleeve of his coat back to glance at his watch. “Festivities are about to begin. Too late, I’m afraid.”
“No it’s not, call them.”
“I wish you hadn’t come, Mr. Martinez.”
“Because, señor, I’m a witness. I know you killed the deputies, I can identify you, and I know where you live.”
The steward made a slight bow. “It’s nothing personal, you understand. But…you just became a loose end.”
Manny removed his Glock and waggled it. “Careful the things you say, Hubert.”
Hubert smiled. “You won’t shoot me. I’m unarmed.”
“You might be surprised.”
“I did my research. You’re underworld material, Mr. Martinez. Brutal and tireless. Your hands are bloodier than most. In my line of work, you’re worth two million a year. Yet you live by the same code all the fatally noble do. And you won’t shoot me.” He shrugged inside his trench coat. “You’d like it on my end, being a free agent. A lot more freedom.”
Manny lowered his gun again, feeling foolish. The man called his bluff, and he wasted time talking. “Goodbye Hubert.”
Hubert stepped off the curb and walked to a dark Lexus sedan on 1st Street. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Martinez. Best of luck.”
Manny whipped off his sports jacket, threw it inside the car, and yelled at the phone. “Beck, the Appalachian Palace security team is already here.”
“Impossible. How did—”
“Call for ambulances.”
Manny left the car door open and ran for the Sports Cafe. His shoes sounded like drums in the silence.
Idiots! This was such a stereotypical thing for deputy marshals to do. Meatheads, they were called. All muscle, no brain. Leap first, look later. Action junkies. Given a target, they chase it without a second thought. No regard for preparation or repercussion.
His kind of people.
How quickly things change. He’d raced here to warn them about the lion’s den. But the lions got here first.
The Cafe was small and shining like a jack-o’-lantern in the dark. A half dozen cars were parked out front, crowding the thin street.
Even as he ran, the attack started. In the still and empty downtown, the assault rifle chatter sounded like profanity. The noise burst to life at the rear of the Cafe—Hubert’s security team used the back door, catching the deputies off guard. Which meant he’d probably find a small ambush squad on the sidewalk…
He rounded the line of cars. Front door coming in range. Two men waited in the shadows near the entrance. Anyone ran out the front door, they’d be cut down.
The sound of gunfire inside the Cafe nauseating him. He felt like vomiting. He was too late.
Deal with the ambush first.
He needed to see their faces. “Turn around, amigos!” he shouted, startling them.
The two men crouching in the shadows twisted. One of them Manny recognized—Nicholás the sentry, the man who’d clubbed him in the back. Both ambushers held assault rifles.
Time shifted into a slower gear. Manny didn’t break stride. He leveled the Glock, his right arm straight, left crooked at the elbow. Years of training painted a terminus on his target, his hands and eyes working in concert with his balance and speed. Like a laser sight only he could see. Small adjustments steadied the bouncing terminus…
He squeezed.
The weapon blasted its load and Nicolás’s head caved between the eyes. The other man flinching sideways, trying to aim. Manny shot him quick—a lucky strike, fatal, near the hairline. He reached their bodies and fired twice more each, the rounds to the chest. Six total he’d fired. He ejected his magazine, pocketed it, and rammed in another.
Errant rounds inside the Cafe perforated the glass storefront. Bullets thudding into parked cars.
The wide pane to the right of the door shattered, falling in wedges and splinters. A tremendous crash, though not as loud as the assault rifle chatter.
A man staggering through the door and onto the sidewalk.
Even in the dim light, Manny identified a marshal—beefy, wearing a ballistic vest, tattoos on his arms. He caught another round in the back, absorbed by the plate.
Manny gathered a two-step running start, caught the man with his shoulder, and barreled him out of harm’s way. More bullets raining into the car doors. Manny landed on top of the man and rolled off, his Glock snapping up to cover the door.
Inside the gunfire ceased.
He was too late, he knew. Hubert brought professionals. Everyone inside was dead by now. His stomach churned, sick with adrenalin and fear.
He held the pistol in his right fist. With his other hand he groped for the deputy. “Hey, hombre, get up. We need to go.” His voice sounded calm.
Across the street from the Cafe was an old television station, now vacant. One story. Had Manny been looking, he’d have seen a hostile rise on the roof, brandishing one of the launchers from the Appalachian Palace. He’d be impressed to discover it was a military-grade Mk 153 shoulder-launcher, housing a thermobaric rocket. Perfect for obliterating evidence.
But Manny wasn’t looking. Ignorant of the danger, he took hold of the deputy’s vest and dragged him to the curb.
The man on the roof waited, pausing for his colleagues to clear, and fired.
The rocket jumped into the Cafe and erupted. Fire and light and noise. The detonation created overpressure inside the building, an effect which shattered the air and breathed violently inward. Had Manny been fifteen feet closer, his eyes and ears and lungs would’ve been destroyed, possibly sucked out of his body.
The Cafe broke and collapsed. Propane tanks burst and ignited; shrapnel and gaseous flames flung wide. The fiery wave rolled outwards, then rose into the dark sky.
For a handful of heartbeats, Manny thought he’d died. Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, like he’d been spun out of a blender. His shirt was on fire. He screwed up his eyes and pressed against his ears. Everything hurt. His senses sputtered and came back online.
The deputy marshal groaned again and crawled behind a car and collapsed.
“Get under the car,” called Manny in a hoarse voice. “And stay there.”
He had to go. Immediately.
They’d be coming for him now.
21
Manny’s car still idled at the intersection of Eversole and Main. He limped into sight as one of Hubert’s extermination crew ran for the Camaro’s open car door. If they stole his car, he’d be trapped with the lions.
He paused. Assumed a Weaver firing stance. His hands shook. Shirt smoldering. He glared down the Glock’s sight and tracked the man. Held his breath and squeezed.
The Glock kicked and the man’s shoulder spit blood. The impact spun him around. Manny fired again and missed, his target scrambling behind the line of cars.
Two rounds fired. Seven left.
The night was warming with noise. Sirens and dogs barking.
Manny ran for his Camaro, firing wildly at the man he’d shot.
“Stay down!” he shouted.
He reached his car—it was open and idling; a careless and fortunate mistake on his part. He dropped into gear, and his eyes widened—to his left, standing on the second floor of the old bank and silhouetted by the night’s perfectly full moon, a man hoisted a rocket launcher onto his shoulder and aimed.
“Ay hala,” he grumbled.
He stomped the gas. The car responded beautifully, surging forward fast enough to take his breath. He needed all 650 horsepower.
Eyes on his rearview, he turned right onto West Clover, wheels screaming, and the man with the launcher fired. Rockets travel too fast for any real evasive maneuver, but it was unguided—Manny swerved to the left and the printing shop on the corner detonated with the errant missile.
Manny executed a hard left going fifty miles pe
r hour. He jerked the steering wheel, downshifted to break traction and spin the tires, and turned into the skid. The Camaro fishtailed without losing speed, gripped the road again heading south on 421, and shot forward.
He touched the shifter and reached ninety, jetting from downtown. Headlights flared behind.
Of course he’d be pursued. Hubert would be up to his ears in cops if Manny escaped.
Chances were, the car was a black Toyota sedan. Camry or Avalon. Maybe Lexus. He’d seen a fleet of them at the Appalachian Palace. Probably only a 3.5L V6, a toy compared to his American muscle. But on these twisting roads through the mountainous countryside the smaller car could compete if expertly driven, relaying Manny’s location to other cars.
He shifted and eased off the gas, arcing through a curve. Bringing them closer. His Camaro pulsed restlessly, reminding him of resources yet untapped.
The pursuing sedan converged and flicked its high beams, blinding him. Manny buzzed down his window—night air rushed in like a hurricane.
A pop behind. Pistol shot. Missed.
From inside his pocket, Manny detected a vibration. An incoming call but his phone was inaccessible. He activated the car’s Bluetooth and sudden ringing filled the interior. He pressed a button on the steering wheel to answer.
“Sinatra! Where are—”
“Listen, Beck. I’m heading south on 421. Hubert and the Appalachian guys massacred the marshals. If I don’t return, you’ll find my wrecked car a mile or two out of Harlan.”
“Did you—”
“I’ll call you back.”
He punched the button again, hanging up.
Another pop from the Toyota and a bullet punctured Manny’s rear windshield. From the sound of it, the bullet lodged inside the passenger seat back. Small shards of glass sprinkled his dash. Through the rearview, he glared out the jagged hole.
“Bastards. Cabrón!”