White Lies

[Robbie C.]

The big Magnum felt somehow familiar in his hand, though he wasn’t sure why. He’d used a SIG since he’d started working for Miguel Manolo, and everything before that was a thick bank of fog in his mind. But like he’d said before, he knew this game.

The bent cop from Lauderdale was slow on the uptake. Maybe because he had his own gun out and ready. Or maybe because the badge made him lazy…too used to punks giving it up as soon as they saw the flash of silver.

The cop was talking now, and not making much sense. Making noise about how the two of them could go into business. Calling him Crockett or something and holding the little pocket pistol loose in his hand like it was a toy. He shook his head, tired of the game. “The name’s Burnett.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“That’s B-u-r-n-e-double t.” The boom of the magnum echoed out over the water, but Sonny was too busy cranking the twin engines on the go-fast boat to see the crooked cop’s body sprawled on the dock. The shot would bring heat, and he needed to get clear of the area before that happened. Or more of Manolo’s men showed up.

Sonny Burnett had been expecting trouble ever since Miguel Manolo sent him to take out the cop in the alley the night before. It was an easy enough job…walk up on the idiot in the dark and put two .45s in his chest. Even with the brewing storm he’d seen the guy wasn’t moving, sprawled in a pile of cardboard and garbage bags like the trash he’d been. It wasn’t the job that bothered him; it was the way Manolo had handed it to him. This one hadn’t been any different.

Wind whipped through his hair as he opened the throttles wide on the twin engines and gave the boat its head. He’d need a place to lie low now, both from Manolo’s shooters and the cops. And he’d have to come up with a plan to keep himself alive in the only game he knew. The roar of the engines worked its way into his head, pulling the kinks out of his thoughts and letting them slide together.

One thing about the drug game was there was always another buyer. For drugs. For information. And for security. Sonny figured he had information some people might want, and his record for providing security was well-known. He just needed a way in…an offering of sorts to ease his way into a new organization and show he was turning his back on Manolo at the same time. Reaching down, he eased back on the throttles a bit. No point in draining the tanks or blowing an engine.

 

Ricardo Tubbs ran through the post-modern mess of the gallery, his Smith & Wesson gripped in his hand. The two bruises on his chest burned like fire, but he didn’t slow his pace. The boom of the shot hit him like a brick and he tried to move faster. A shot meant one thing, and he had no illusion that Yagovitch could beat Sonny Crockett to the draw.

Pushing past two cowering gallery patrons he slammed through the back door, the snub nose revolver up and ready. His gaze flew from arcs of spray rising high from the back of a low-slung boat to a body on the dock with a gaping bloody wound in its chest and back to the boat. He knew what had happened without any further thought, and the single word ripped itself from his throat. “Sonny!!!!” But the boat was gone, a memory on the calm water. And the torn body of a dirty Lauderdale cop called Yagovitch was still piled on the dock like a bundle of bloody rags.

None of it made any sense. He looked around, trying to find a security camera. Anything that might help him understand what had happened here. His hand started to hurt, and he realized he had a death grip on the metal tubing rail of the back entryway. Relaxing his grip, he forced himself to holster his pistol and start down the stairs.

“Careful, Rico.” Rolando Jordan’s clear tones cut through the screams of the few patrons still in easy hearing distance. “IAD’s gonna wanna look at that.”

“Yeah, I bet they will.” But he stopped short of the body in spite of himself.

“Did you see it go down?”

“Naw. The boat was already away from the dock by the time I got out here.”

“But I heard you shout…”

“Reflex, man. It had to be Sonny, you know? But I didn’t see him. Didn’t see any of it.” He turned away from the mess that had been a dirty cop and nodded toward the camera. “See if you can get the tapes before they erase ‘em. If Manolo fronts this place, he’s gonna want to make every trace of his dirty work disappear.”

“You got it.” Rolando turned, then paused. “You think he did this, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’d bet he was defending himself. Yagovitch was a dirty cop. If he fingered me, and then saw me in the office, he might have spun some big line to that chump Manolo.”

Rolando nodded, but Rico could see the doubt in his eyes. Even at this distance. “Yeah, but he still shot a cop.”

“If you wanna call that piece of trash a cop.” Rico turned away, looking out to where the boat had vanished. “See if you can get the tape.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but there was no going back. Rolando was a friend, but Sonny was his partner. And whatever was going on in his head was bad. No question about that. He just had to figure out what the hell was going on and how to get a step or two ahead of him. He also knew he needed to call Castillo.

“Good call on the tape, Rico.” Rolando stood in the doorway, a smile on his face and a black plastic rectangle clutched in his left hand. “I caught this young lady about to hit the erase button. Looks like she’ll get a nice ride downtown for attempted destruction of evidence, interfering in an investigation, and anything else we can think of.”

The girl looked familiar, but Rico had trouble focusing past her wide mouth. That just ain’t natural. But her voice was sharp. “I’ll be out of there in ten minutes.”

“Maybe so. But you ain’t gonna have that tape. And your boss ain’t gonna be happy we got it intact.” Rico smiled, seeing a flash of fear in her eyes. “An’ maybe we just let it slip that you brought us the tape.” He turned to Rolando. “Get her outa here.”

 

Compared to Manolo’s guest room the place wasn’t much, but it was away from Lauderdale and under the radar. Sonny Burnett looked around the room again, a tight smile pursing his lips. Somewhere between a flea-pit next to a truck stop and a Holiday Inn that had seen better decades, the place was calculated to draw no attention. A six month lease under a different name was enough to keep it quiet and private. Which for now was just what he needed.

He’d thought for a moment about keeping the boat, but ended up torching it close to where he’d finally come ashore. It was too easy for Manolo or the cops to track, and another burned-out go-fast wasn’t going to draw any extra attention along the South Florida coast. Not with the conflict between Manolo and a loose assortment of rival cartels heating up. Just the cost of doing business, and the police would be glad there weren’t any bodies to go along with the boat. Eventually it would track back to Manolo, but by then it wouldn’t matter.

Sitting on the bed, staring at the TV without seeing any of the images on the screen, Sonny felt the gears in his head meshing into place. Of all the families taking runs at Manolo’s operation, the one with the best chance of success was headed by Oscar Carrera. They weren’t as ruthless as Manolo, but they had a rock-solid shipping operation and were starting to expand their contacts south of the border. They were also random, hitting hard some days and laying back the next.

Familiar things. That’s what the doc said, right? He was annoyed he didn’t remember for sure, but he knew the idea was a good one. He’d already seen to the big Magnum, and now it was the SIG’s turn, broken down into its components on a towel on the bed ready for cleaning. There was something familiar about the smell of gun oil…something that pierced the fog in his head and also helped him think better.

As he wiped down the barrel, Sonny imagined he could hear Manolo’s people shaking the branches in hopes he’d fall out. Questions in bars, maybe even some rough stuff for that pretty little assistant of his, although the more he thought about it the more Sonny suspected Manolo had planted her in his bed to keep an eye on him. Still, the big man wouldn’t be happy and he’d want to take his frustration out on someone. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad for the girl. She’d known the price before she bought the ticket and climbed on the ride.

The cop in the alley, if it had even been a cop, was a problem for another day. The decision felt good, and he shoved everything relating to that night into a box in the corner of his mind to be opened later. Making contact with Carrera was his first priority, followed quickly by convincing the old man he wasn’t a plant or on a mission to kill him. He didn’t think as much about the kid. Word on the street was Mikey liked his blow more than he liked the responsibilities that went with the family business. And that left Sonny dealing with wily old Oscar.

Slotting the barrel into the slide, Sonny smiled. By now Manolo would have shut down every pipeline Sonny had worked, hoping to minimize any damage. But Miguel had no way of knowing just how much digging Sonny had been doing in the last couple of weeks. Storage houses. Names of dealers. Contacts in Customs. A whole little black book of introduction for Oscar Carrera. But Sonny wouldn’t show up empty-handed, either.

Slamming a full magazine into the butt of the SIG, he worked the slide and smiled as it ran forward, locking a fresh round into place. Flicking on the safety, he stuffed the silver and black pistol into a shoulder rig. At first he’d carried it on his waist, but something just didn’t feel natural about it. When he switched to a shoulder rig all that changed. Walking over, he turned off the TV before stopping to check his dark silk suit and hair in the mirror. It was time to go to work.

Miami had given herself over to flickering neon and warm tropical night air by the time he left the apartment building. He paused just inside the entryway, getting his bearings and letting the air wash over him. It always triggered something in him, some distant memory just out of reach but enough to make his heart start beating faster.

His second-hand Camero was parked down the street, just far enough away to draw out anyone trying to watch him and the car at the same time. He started it up and eased into traffic, knowing he had two stops to make before returning to the apartment. The first one was strictly personal, while the second was all business.

Somehow his hands knew the way to the marina and the address listed on his Florida driver’s license. He’d never actually gone to the boat, knowing if the cops were still out there they’d be watching it like the creatures of habit they were. But he still drove by from time to time, never in the same car and never at the same time. He couldn’t explain why he did it, even to himself. Maybe he’d flash on something looking at the little sailboat, or the drive would trigger some memory buried deep in his head. But some nights, like tonight, he did it just because.

He turned into the big parking lot, switching over to glowing yellow running lights and letting the car crawl down the parking lanes, rolling past Porsches, Corvettes, and some damned green van parked near the marina office. Out of some buried habit he almost pulled into a spot, but forced himself to keep rolling at the same even pace. Out on the water he could see boats of various sizes bobbing in the slight swell, their cabin lights floating up and down and the mast lights twinkling like distant Christmas trees. He almost stopped again, but forced himself to roll on. Something didn’t feel quite right. Like someone was watching. Maybe this was a mistake. Damn it! Focus and keep moving. We got work to do yet tonight.

Another thirty feet and he turned back onto the main road and accelerated away. His second stop was on the other side of the city, and he had a schedule to keep.

 

“I don’t know why the hell we’re here. He ain’t gonna show.”

There was an edge to Stan’s voice floating through the earpiece, and Rico bit back a sharp reply. “Just humor me, Stan. Ok?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The voice changed. “We got a car coming through. Late model Camero with Florida plates. I’ll call ‘em in. Looks like one occupant, but the light sucks out here.”

“Tell me about it.” Rico shifted in his observation post in one of the small office buildings overlooking the marina. They’d blanketed that damned boat early on, but over time surveillance bled down from two teams to one, and then just an occasional drive-by. But the events in Lauderdale had stirred Castillo into action, or at least enough for him to give Stan to Rico for a couple of nights. “We have too many active cases to devote much time to this,” he’d said in his whisper.

Peering through the high-powered night binoculars, Rico found the car. No headlights, and it’s moving slow. He fiddled with the focus. Can’t see the driver for shit. Damned tinted windows! There oughta be a law… Shifting, he tried again and then keyed the radio. “You get a look at the driver?”

“Naw. Hidin’ behind those blacked-out windows he might as well be Elvis himself out for a cruise.” There was a pause. “Car comes back registered to Nick Jacobs. Lauderdale address. No tickets or warrants on the name or the car.”

“Solid.” Rico kept starting through the binoculars. Put the damned window down! Light a smoke! Anything. I got this damned feeling… “He stopping at all?”

“Naw. Slowed down once, but picked it up right away again.” Stan had managed to slip the Bug Van in close to the action. And he had better gear. “I got shots of the car, but whoever’s driving is bent on staying a man of mystery. Even dimmed his damned dash lights. That ain’t a Crockett trick, is it?”

“No.” But Rico couldn’t shake the feeling. Still, with no probable cause any stop they made would go right out the window. And if it was Sonny and he was messed up… “You think he made you?”

“Naw. If it’s Sonny and he’s gone off the reservation, don’t you think he would have started blasting right away?”

Rico wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Not really. If that had been Sonny in Lauderdale he was damned quick on the trigger. And not disposed to miss. His ribs still hurt from the two big .45 slugs the vest had blocked, and Yagovitch had been killed by a single shot to the heart from a reasonable distance for a handgun. “Fair enough” was all he could manage.

“And it looks like whoever it is is done for the night. The Camero just left the lot. You want me to try a tail?”

Yes. “No, we’d better hold position in case he comes back.” Rico looked at his watch, the luminous dots jumping out at him in the dark room. “But only for another hour.”

“Roger that.”

Rico grinned at the relief he heard in Stan’s voice. It was hard to stay mad at the big guy. Or even irritated. He gave his best to every case, and he hadn’t had the best time since his partner was murdered. Sometimes he wondered what Stan did when they closed up shop for the day. Before he and Larry had gone off wherever, but now he seemed pretty much alone. Rico had thought about reaching out a time or two, but there’d always been tension between the surveillance expert and Sonny. But now…

Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the binos. He and Stan had exactly zero in common, and on top of it all he didn’t much care for Elvis. But he couldn’t shake the feeling something had been up with that car.

 

Most of Manolo’s stash houses were hidden in plain sight. A condo just back from the high-rent belt along the water. The back room of a gallery that might make the B-list one day. Never in a club or bar. Sonny knew of some, and he’d learned about more trading shots with runners waiting for their next call. He smiled in the darkness of the car. Manolo might think big, but his transportation was strictly small time.

He’d learned about this house from a skinny Cubano whose hands shook when he poured tequila and giggled just a bit too much. The guy was good with cars - better with boats - so the organization kept him around and tolerated his quirks. Ernesto was older than he looked, and Sonny learned one night that the shakes came from a stint in one of Castro’s guest houses.

Parked under one of the palms dotting both sides of the wide boulevard, he let his eyes wander over the parked cars and dark windows until he found the right house. The neighborhood was just on the edge of the city where trailer courts gave way to tract housing and ambitions took root. Often the ambition didn’t make it out of the cul de sac, and ‘for sale’ signs decorated more than a few yards. But out here police patrols were scarce, and Manolo’s security was likewise lax. “Never more than four guys in there,” Ernesto had insisted after his fifth shot. “Hell, most times I go by there ain’t more than two. One awake, one usually asleep or jerkin’ off in the back bedroom.”

Sonny eased the Camero’s door open, cursing the overhead light. He’d never worked this neighborhood before, so he figured Manolo wouldn’t have upped security. But if he had, the weight of the SIG gave him confidence. Closing the door just enough to kill the light he make his way down the street, ducking off the sidewalk as soon as the neighboring house’s straggling hedge gave him cover. The .45 filled his hand now, and he made no noise as he moved through grass that hadn’t been cut in weeks. His dark silk suit turned him into a shadow gliding over the ground. Then he was at the back door and testing the knob.

Assholes didn’t even lock the door! Standing to the side, he eased it open a crack and risked a look in. Jumping rays of color shot down the hall from what he guessed was a TV in the front of the house, and he could hear faint strains of what sounded like theme music. He stepped into the kitchen, avoiding a jumble of empty beer bottles by the door, and moved to the hall. He could see through a partly open door into the back bedroom, and snoring and a dark shape told him where one of the guards was. Sliding into the room, he cracked the sleeping man hard with the SIG; not enough to kill but enough for him to wake up with a hell of a headache. A quick look around showed him a Beretta on the beside table and not much else in the room.

The guy in the front room was as easy as the one in bed; slumped in an easy chair with an empty Bud bottle in his lap and four more around his feet staring at Dragnet on the TV. He started to come to his feet, then sank back when he saw the pistol leveled at his gut. “Easy does it, pal. Where’s the product?”

“Burnett? Did the boss send you?”

He smiled. “Something like that. Security test and you failed. Where’s the product?” He shifted the SIG for emphasis.

“Trap door in the hall closet.” The chunky man sighed and let his head fall. “Guess we failed, right?”

“Something like that.” Keeping the .45 on the man, Sonny walked to the door and opened it. “Top or bottom?”

“Hunh? Oh, yeah. Bottom. There’s a ring.”

Feeling with his fingers, his eyes never leaving the guard, Sonny found the ring and pulled. A section of floor came up with a squealing of wood and he saw the plain black gym bag Manolo preferred for all product. “Twenty, right?”

“Yeah. Hey, can you tell the boss we were awake at least?”

“Sure.” He was at the chair in two steps and cracked the man in the back of the head with the pistol. “Not that it’ll help you much,” he muttered to the unconscious figure. “Hell, Manolo will probably have you both killed. I know I would.” Five minutes later he was back in the car, the duffle bag secure in the back seat, heading for a payphone he’d scouted three days before. It was time to reach out and touch someone. And twenty kilos of free Bolivian marching dust was a hell of a calling card.

 

Martin Castillo looked down the length of the conference table, his eyes narrowed to hide the redness. It had been days since he slept properly, something he didn’t see changing in the immediate future. “Lauderdale’s taking it as a homicide. Switek, what do we know about that camera footage?”

“You mean the stuff Lauderdale tried to say didn’t exist?” Stan’s eyes narrowed. “If Rico here hadn’t have been there with good ol’ Sergeant Jordan the tape would have either been erased by Manolo’s lady friend or ‘lost’ by Broward County’s finest.”

Castillo shook his head. “The tape.”

“Sorry, lieutenant. The angle’s not good, and the girl did manage to wipe the first five seconds or so.” Stan turned on the TV and VCR. “Now if you look here” - he paused the tape - “you can see the back of someone’s head in the boat and that scumbag Yagovitch facing him. Good view on scumbag, no view on our suspect.” He pointed. “Note scumbag has a pistol in his hand.” He hit play again. “There’s no audio, and the camera’s set to watch the door and maybe a sliver of the loading dock so the angle’s not the best.”

Castillo nodded. He’d watched the tape at least ten times since Tubbs brought it in, both at regular speed and slowed down so much it was almost frame by frame. “Yagovitch isn’t making an arrest.” It wasn’t a question.

Trudy spoke up, her voice low. “No, lieutenant. It looks like he’s trying to make a deal. Like he’s holding all the cards.”

Looking across the room, he saw Gina looking down at her hands. Not wanting to see what was happening on the screen. “Is that what you think, Detective Calabrese?”

“I…I don’t know what I think. Sure, that could be it, I guess. But do we even know if the guy in the boat is Sonny?”

Tubbs nodded. “Hard to miss those golden locks, even at this distance with a crappy camera.”

Castillo watched as Yagovitch motioned with his pistol. The other man shook his head, and then a big Magnum appeared from nowhere, its muzzle flare captured in choppy black and white by the camera.

Gina’s voice was flat when she spoke. “If that’s Sonny, it’s clearly self-defense.”

“We don’t know what it is.” But Castillo knew, or figured he did. Deep down where it mattered. He recognized the way Sonny Crockett held a weapon…he’d seen it enough times before. Maybe Yagovitch had threatened him, maybe he hadn’t. There was no way to tell for sure. But Yagovitch had been on Miguel Manolo’s payroll. He’d ratted out Tubbs, and Manolo had sent his best shooter after him. And when the hit failed, Manolo sent Yagovitch after the shooter. It was the only line of thought that made sense, but it also meant Tubbs had been right about who’d taken those two shots at him in the alley. And there was no way Crockett could have known Tubbs was wearing a vest.

He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Something about this whole thing wasn’t right. “We’re not supposed to be working this case, so we won’t. But I want you all to use your informants. Find out what Manolo’s thinking and how he’s moving. He is still our case. Yagovitch’s leak about Tubbs might buy us some warrants.” He looked down at the battered surface of the table. “That’s all for now. Trudy, a moment.”

They left the room quietly, with none of the banter Castillo expected from his squad. Once the door shut he turned to Trudy. “How’s Gina holding up?”

Trudy shook her head. “That’s a dumb question, lieutenant. She’s still got feelings for Crockett, and seeing him shoot a cop ain’t easy for her.”

“You think it’s him in the boat.” Again it wasn’t a question.

“You know his moves the same as I do. It had to be him.” Trudy snorted, her long, dark hair bobbing against her shoulders with the motion. “Just like it had to be him in that alley with Tubbs. The question you aren’t asking me is why.”

“Keep an eye on Gina. She’s got time due. If it gets too tough for her, convince her to take some of it.” He looked down for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “We don’t know what happened to Crockett on the boat or afterwards. If he was on the boat, the explosion could have caused some kind of damage.” That and the stress he was under. I saw tougher men snap in Laos under that kind of pressure.

“So you don’t think he went over?”

“No.” The answer came out unbidden, surprising him. “If he was, he wouldn’t have shot Yagovitch. But we need to keep working Manolo.” He paused for a moment, wanting to say more but knowing it was a bad idea. “Thank you.”

She looked at him for a moment before smiling slightly and heading back out to the squad room. Alone with his thoughts, Castillo closed his eyes for a handful of heartbeats. Even if Crockett didn’t go over, he’s out there making his own moves. And he’s extremely dangerous. We need to get a handle on this. Soon. I just wish I knew how.

 

The alley dominated his dream, dark and swept by a sharp wind pushing trash in front of it like brittle storm clouds. Flashes of lightning lit the stucco and brick walls like random disco strobes, and he narrowed his eyes against the glare and wind-propelled dust. There was fog, too, but he didn’t remember fog from when it happened outside the dream.

The other man started at far end of the alley, too far down for him to see his fate approaching. He was saying something, his voice obscured by the wind, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t a deal. It was an execution. Manolo had said so.

The pistol kicked in his hand once, then again. Then the fog suddenly lifted and he saw the face. Familiar but yet strange. The man wasn’t dead. His lips moved, forming sounds. Leaning forward, ears pricked against the wind, he tried to hear. “Sonny!”

Eyes wide and staring at the blown popcorn ceiling, Sonny Burnett sat up in bed. The sheets were soaked in his sweat, and he could smell the stale Black Jack in his pores. Shaking his head, he staggered into the apartment’s tiny kitchen and filled a glass at the sink. This wasn’t the first time he’d had the dream, but it was the first time the man had spoken. What the hell did it mean? But in a way he was glad it wasn’t the beach dream again.

The water felt good on his whisky-dried throat, and he poured another before padding back to the bedroom and sitting down on the bed. He knew he should be happy. The call had gone according to plan, and a glance at his watch told him he’d be making his first move in less than six hours.

Old Oscar had been suspicious, of course. Sonny didn’t blame him. It wasn’t every day your main rival’s head of security called up with an offer of twenty keys and information in exchange for a job. But he’d studied the Carreras, father and son, and knew he’d made the right play.

A smile played across his face when he thought back to the question that sealed things. Oscar’s voice was a growl over the line. “Word is you’re a cop, Burnett. Right from the mouth of Miguel Manolo himself.”

“If I was a cop, would I have killed a cop? Ask him how his pet Lauderdale cop’s feeling with a .44 slug in his guts. But you’d better get one of those ghost whisperers for him if he wants an answer.”

“Good point, Sonny!” The man’s laugh was more of a roar down the line. “Ain’t never seen a cop who’d shoot another cop.”

“Also ask him who put a .45 through Gutierrez’s face. It sure as hell wasn’t Miguel Manolo.”

Chuckling, he laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. But it was no use. For a fleeting moment he missed Polly Wheeler, but he chased her memory away. There’d always been something lurking behind her, a slender shadow he couldn’t put a face to but who cut him to the bone any time he caught even a fleeting glimpse. My damned head’s scrambled enough I don’t need to try to make it worse. I can still hear that damned doctor asking ‘do you know who you are?’ And the answer’s still the same.

He left the apartment wearing the same loose suit he’d worn in the alley. It was a bit of a drive from his fleapit to the sprawling compound the Carreras called home, and he took his time. Why risk a ticket from some over-eager cop and have the moron find the twenty keys riding comfortably in back? Sure, he could always shoot the cop, but they always called in traffic stops before leaving the damned patrol car. He’d be made either way.

The guy at the gate had invested all his genetics in muscles. “Call the boss,” Sonny repeated, getting bored. “He’s expecting me. The name’s Burnett. And if you get your hand near that gun again your boss is gonna have to find another ape to open the door.”

The insult seemed to spark some kind of primitive memory, and the goon turned and stepped inside the guard shack that looked like it had been stolen from the set of some old Foreign Legion movie. For a moment an image flashed in front of Sonny’s eyes…an old brick and mortar fort somewhere tropical crumbling from neglect and obvious violence. It faded before he could try to understand it, and the big guy was back. “You check out.” He hit a button and the gate started to grind open. “And you ain’t got the stones…”

Sonny grinned behind his Ray Bans as he slipped the SIG back into the shoulder rig. “And you’d be dead, asshole.” He hit the gas, spraying the white wall with gravel as the tires bit and he accelerated into the main compound.

Where Miguel Manolo was modern and subdued, Oscar Carrera had gone to his architect and told him to make the place look like Scarface. Parking the car, Sonny let his eyes wander over the white columns, arches that couldn’t decide if they were Spanish or Roman, and a shimmering between the shrubs hinting at at least one pool in the back part of the grounds. It was the house of a man who’d made it, and wanted you to know he’d made it. And if he was any judge the dump was a security nightmare.

Oscar Carrera wasn’t a big man, but his voice boomed and his every move radiated energy and barely contained violence. Training in his wake was a skinny, angular character Sonny recognized as Miguel Carrera, the son and appointed heir to the organization. Oscar’s voice reached out to him before the man was through the double front doors. “Sonny! Right on time. See, Miguel, this is a man who knows his business.”

“And more importantly I know Miguel Manolo’s business.” Sonny set the black bag down on the concrete walkway and took a step back. “You want to check the calling card?”

The kid started forward, only to be held back by his father’s voice. “Are we animals? Peasants? You are said to be a man of your word, and if you say it’s twenty, it’s twenty. Come! Bring it inside and we’ll talk.”

Inside the place was all vaulted ceilings and art taken from some Italian palace somewhere. Oscar led the way to a room fitted with a big desk and a commanding view of the Olympic-size pool in the back. Sonny followed, noticing how Miguel fell into last position without batting an eye. Lots of anger there. And not too much skill. Might be something I can use. He was still rolling the thought around in his head when the old man waved a big hand. “Just put it on the desk, Sonny. And tell me to my face why Manolo’s great head of security wants to join my little organization.”

Setting the gym bag on the oak desk top, Sonny flashed his deal-maker smile. “Hard to stay with a boss when he starts spreading rumors you’re a cop. Or when he tries to have you killed.”

Miguel’s smile was more of a coke-addled snarl, and Sonny saw another weakness. “Hard to trust a man who takes the word of a dirty cop over yours.”

“My thoughts exactly. Besides, old Manolo’s too busy talking to his damned chickens and not tending to business.” Sonny paused, then played a card he was sure Carrera couldn’t ignore. “He’s getting soft.”

Oscar turned to his son and grinned. “This is what I was talking about. Our moment. But what else do you bring? Not that I don’t appreciate twenty keys, you understand.”

“Yeah, I get it. I can give you at least half of Manolo’s transportation network.” Sonny raised a hand. “Yeah, I know he’ll change the parts I worked with, but what he doesn’t know is I was doing some digging on my own. This product came from a stash house he didn’t think I knew about. See, Manolo likes to contract out his transportation. Too much for my taste. So he’s got these houses scattered around. And the few runs he controls are essential to his business. Take them down, and he’s got nothing.”

“So a few names and addresses.”

“No, Mikey. You also get me. Running security. Keeping your old man alive. And you. I had a look at the place when I came in, and so far you guys have been lucky. That ape at the gate doesn’t look like he could pick his nose without a how-to movie, and you don’t have near enough cameras on those walls. And make no mistake. If you take out Manolo you’ll both be wearing big targets on your foreheads.”

Oscar’s laugh boomed off the walls. “See? This is what we need.” He came around the desk and unzipped the bag, pulling out a wrapped bag of coke and tossing it to his son. “Have that tested. I want to talk to Sonny.” Once the kid was gone, Oscar leaned back against the desk and sighed. “I keep hoping he’ll grow into the job.”

“Give him time.” Sonny knew Miguel wasn’t growing anything aside from a habit, but this wasn’t the time. “And let me guess. You want me to lead your boys after at least one of Manolo’s operations. A test.”

“More a show of good faith. I may trust you, but my men won’t until they see you spill Manolo blood.”

And you won’t fully trust me until I do that. Closing the door on going back to Manolo for good. Sonny nodded. “I get it. But we’ll have to hit soon. Manolo’s going to be beating the bushes looking for me, even more so since I hit his stash house. Eventually he’ll start rearranging his networks, but right now he’s mad so he’ll be focused on me. That buys us some time.”

“Good! But now we have a drink.” Oscar looked toward the door. “And what does the kit say?”

Miguel’s face was contorted into what passed for a smile of admiration. “Almost 97% pure. Sonny here brought us the good stuff.”

“Nothing less than the best.” Sonny smiled to cover his own annoyance. “But if we’re gonna do this we gotta move soon. Manolo knows I hit his stash house. I left his guys alive so they’d tell him.”

“That was reckless!”

“No,” Oscar said with a big grin, “that was smart. Throws that arrogant prick off balance. It’s like walking up and telling him you ain’t afraid of him at all.”

“Something like that.” It also means if Manolo doesn’t kill them they owe me their lives. Might be useful later. “But once he’s done being pissed he’ll start moving product around.”

“How many men will you need?”

“Depends on the message you want to send, Mr. Carrera. His boys hit one of your shipments last week. We can hit one back, or two to show him we mean business.” He paused. “That could kick off a war.”

Something changed in Oscar’s eyes. “I think we’ve got that covered, Sonny. Hit two of them. Miguel, get the crews ready.”

Sonny nodded, the gears in his head turning. Sneaky old bastard’s got someone on the inside of Manolo’s organization. And with me gone, there’s no close-in security anymore. If I were him, I’d use the mess of two stash houses going down to take out the boss.

Oscar was still talking, but Sonny was only half-listening. He’d already turned his attention to the hits. Or more exactly the one he’d control. His audition. He’d picked the harder of the two locations for his team with that in mind. In normal times Manolo had four men on it, but he had enough manpower to add at least two more guns. And since the place held almost eighty keys Sonny figured the man would up his security as much as he could.

“Sonny? You hear me?”

“Sorry, Mr. Carrera. I was planning the hit.”

“All business, eh? Good man. Let me take you down. Meet the boys. My guy, Pancho, is gonna run the other crew. How much you think is at that house?”

“Forty keys. Maybe a bit more or less depending on when the last shipment went out. Three guns, maybe four if Manolo brings in all his shooters.”

“And the one you’re taking?”

“Eighty. And up to six guns.”

Oscar whistled. “You don’t screw around, do you?”

“Do you?”

“Good point, Sonny. I said I want to go to war, you make it happen. But it’ll be a short war, and there will be much time to pick up the pieces.” Oscar looked around as they walked. “You think I need cameras? Better men?”

“If you poke Manolo with a stick, he’s gonna come after you. I just think you need to be ready. And if you bring him down, others are gonna want a share of that action.”

“We’ll talk when you get back, Sonny. I want to hear your ideas.” He paused as they neared the gravel lot where Miguel was assembling men into two rough groups. “I need to ask. Does Manolo have much personal security?”

There it is. “With me gone? Not really. He’ll bring guys in, but they’re not as good as me so they’ll make mistakes.” Sonny grinned. “You want to hit him? Get him when he goes to look at those damned roosters of his. Little place outside Lauderdale that looks like it stepped right out of the Third World. Says he likes it that way. And he goes there any time he’s under stress.”

“A creature of habit? I’ll remember that.” Oscar laughed. “The only habit I have is my wife. When you see her you’ll understand. But it looks like my son has the crews ready. I’ll make the introductions and then you can take over.”

 

Ricardo Tubbs sat at his desk, staring at the note pad without seeing the writing. He could understand why Castillo wanted them back on Manolo, but it didn’t mean he agreed with the call. Sonny was still out there somewhere, and something was seriously wrong with him.

Looking over he saw Gina doing the same thing he was. This has got to be hitting her hard. She’s been carrying a torch for him for so long, I don’t know that she sees anything else. Shaking his head, he looked down at the notepad and the draft of his report from the other night’s surveillance. Something pinged in his head and he got to his feet. “Stan! You ever run that name we got from the car at the marina?”

Switek looked up. “Sure I did. Came back to some guy in Lauderdale, remember?”

Rico walked across the squad room. “Yeah, but did we ever check the address?”

Stan punched some keys on the terminal in front of him. “Now that’s funny. The address comes back as a liquor store. No connection to anyone named Jacobs. According to the state’s license logs, the guy who owns the dump is Victor Hanks.” He tapped more keys. “And he’s got no criminal record or known ties.”

“Could this Jordan cat be a cousin? Second wife’s kid? Anything?”

More keys tapped. “That’s where it gets funny. Registration for the car tracks just fine, but the license doesn’t. I can’t get a hit in the state system.”

“So what did Dispatch run the other night?”

“Damned if I know, Rico. Maybe just the plate and they settled for what they got.” Stan shrugged. “Until they get these things to the point we can hit the database ourselves, ain’t no way to tell what Dispatch ran.”

“So what we’ve got is a chump who used a fake ID to register a vehicle legally to an address that won’t check at all?”

“Yeah, but it looks good if some beat cop runs the plate just because. Car comes back registered, and the name it’s tied to comes back clean because Nick Jacobs is clean.” Stan tapped more keys. “He’s some insurance salesman over by Daytona. Doesn’t look like he’s even had a parking ticket.”

“Whoever did this knew the system and how a typical cop would run someone.” Rico shook his head, not liking where his mind was leading him. “Stan, that was Sonny we saw the other night!”

“So why didn’t he go to the boat? You think he made us?”

“No.” Rico shook his head. “No, I don’t. But his Burnett ID used the boat as his address. If his head’s messed up he might have been looking at it to see if it triggered anything. Memories. You know.”

“I guess.” Stan didn’t sound convinced. “What are we gonna tell the lieutenant?”

Rico thought for a moment. “We’ll tell him we spotted a white Camero that came back registered to Nick Jacobs. We couldn’t visually ID the driver, and the car didn’t stick around long.”

“But none of the rest?”

“No. It’s just us thinkin’ out loud right now, Stan. We got no evidence, and you know he likes evidence.” Rico let annoyance bleed into his voice. “Besides, this don’t get us closer to that chump Manolo. And he’s the flavor of the month now.” He relented when he still saw the doubt in Stan’s eyes. “Look, if he asks you, tell him it was my call. I’ll take the heat.”

Back at his desk, he started typing the report. But his mind wouldn’t stay still. Why was Sonny running under a false name? And why the hell did he come back to the marina? If there was something messed up in his head, what was it and was there a way to snap him out of it? He’d thought IDing the car would clear some things up, but it left him with more questions and no damned answers. Including where Sonny Crockett was, both physically and mentally.

 

“You sure that’s it?”

Sonny Burnett looked over at the Carrera shooter. “I said it is, didn’t I? And your boss put me in charge. Manolo doesn’t hide his product in plain sight.”

He could understand the man’s question, though. Not only was the place not in Lauderdale, it was a damned coffee shop. Granted the sign in the window read “closed for remodel…see you soon”, but it was still a coffee shop. But that had been Manolo’s genius; hiding things where people didn’t expect them to be.

They’d driven around the place once, letting Sonny get a feel for the terrain. Carrera sent six men with him in two cars, and he left two at the front. “Keep ‘em bottled in. If they break for it, use the shotguns.” Then he turned to the other four. “We’ll go in through the back. That alley gives us nice cover from the street. There will be one guy on the back door, maybe two if he’s beefed up security. I’ll go in first. The product is in the back room, hidden in the crawl space according to the guy I talked to. There’s a trap door near one of the prep tables.”

Pancho nodded. “Sounds good. Then we get to see how you handle yourself.”

Sonny adjusted his Ray Bans and checked the heavy SIG, pulling the slide back a bit to check the round seated in the chamber. “And I get to see if you bozos are worth what Carrera pays you. Let’s get to work.”

The afternoon heat hit him like a hammer as he stepped out of the air-conditioned Mercedes. A quick look showed him it was clear, and Sonny strode down the alley to the back door of the coffee shop. It didn’t look to be reinforced, which told him there were always guys in the place. He checked to make sure the Carrera men were behind him, and then he smiled. Knocking on the door, he announced in a loud voice. “I got a delivery for Sundown Coffee. No one’s up front so I had to come back here.”

There was a pause, and a voice muffled by the door replied. “We ain’t expecting no delivery.”

“Look, man. It’s hotter than hell out here. And my boss is gonna kick my ass if I get back late again. All you gotta do is sign.”

The voice was louder this time, like the man was standing just behind the door. “I told you, asshole, we…”

Rearing back, Sonny kicked the door open. He didn’t remember where he’d learned the technique, but it was as wired into his reflects as walking. The shattering door caught the first gunman square in the chest, sending him back four feet. Stepping through, Sonny put two .45 slugs in his chest, the twin shots sounding like thunder in the small space of the back room. He kept moving, opening the way for the men behind him. He could hear shouts past the ringing in his ears and kept his head shifting as he moved.

The next target came through a side door, some kind of 9mm tracking before Sonny put two more .45s in his chest. He was flowing now, moving with an ease he didn’t know he had. Shots behind him told him Carrera’s men were earning their pay, and then he dropped another gunman trying to dive through the curtained opening separating the kitchen from the main café. Two shots again, but one taking the man in the head.

As quickly as it began it was over. Six men sprawled dead, the stink of their blood and voided bowels overwhelming everything else in the café. One of his guys had caught a random slug in the arm, but it wasn’t anything to worry about. Sonny also noticed they were giving him more space than they had before. No surprise. Blowing away three guys in as many minutes gets some street cred with these boys. Flicking on the SIG’s safety he changed magazines before stuffing it back in its holster. “Let’s get moving, ladies. Won’t take long for the cops to show up, and we have eighty keys to move.”

The stash was right where the drunken driver had said it would be, hidden in the crawl space behind a trap door…all neatly packaged and ready for shipment. By the time they’d loaded it in the two cars Sonny could hear sirens in the distance. “Let’s go!” he shouted, waving toward the cars. “Move! The boss is expecting us for dinner!”

They were two miles away from the café before Pancho found his voice. “That was some fancy shooting, Burnett. I’d heard the stories, but…”

“Yeah. Always different when you see the real thing.” Sonny allowed the man a slight grin, feeling himself drift into a dark place he usually went after jobs like this. When the adrenalin faded and he was left with himself and seeing what he’d done.

It had been easy. Almost too easy. And it was plain to see Oscar Carrera had bigger plans for the Manolo cartel, including the removal of the man himself. What wasn’t clear is if Oscar understood what would come next. There’d be a vacuum, with smaller outfits scrambling in to snatch up the pieces of Manolo’s operation. Was Oscar ready for that kind of fight? From what Sonny had seen today, he doubted it.

And then there was the inside man. Who had he slipped into Manolo’s inner circle? Sonny had been close, but not close enough to know every face. But from what he’d seen of the bunch, transportation was Manolo’s biggest weakness, followed by long-range planning. He’d been so busy grasping, fighting like those damned roosters he loved so much, he never stopped to think about what came next.

Sonny Burnett smiled. He spent quite a bit of time thinking about what came next. Which is how he’d ended up in this car. He’d stay loyal to Carrera. For as long as it took him to build an organization. Then he’d see what came next.

 

Martin Castillo set the report down as he finished reading. “What do you think about the white car?”

Ricardo Tubbs shrugged. “Someone Manolo sent to check out the boat? I don’t know.”

Why is he lying about this? “And you expect me to believe that, detective?”

Rico sighed. “Look, lieutenant, Switek and I tried to chase down the owner’s name and got nowhere. But it was done well enough to fool a patrol cop running the plate on a whim. I know we didn’t see the driver, but I think it was Sonny.”

“Why?”

“If his head’s scrambled, he’d try to find out who he was, right? And the ID he had for Burnett listed the boat as his address. So it makes sense he’d drive by just to see if anything…”

The office door burst open and Trudy came in. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just got a call about a shooting at the Sundown Coffee Shop. Place has been closed for a couple of weeks, but the responding units found six bodies and evidence of narcotics activity. The place is owned by one of Manolo’s front companies, so they called us.”

Castillo nodded. “Tubbs, take Joplin and Switek to the scene. And have Calabrese join you as soon as she brings me the report on that house that was hit the other night. It looks like someone’s taking out Manolo’s stash houses and we need to get ahead of this before too many bodies pile up.”

Alone in the office, he rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Trying to fight off an inevitable headache. He knew Tubbs was right about Crockett being at the marina, and guessed he was also right about the reason. It was the why that bothered him. Shaking his head, he picked up the surveillance report again. He knew mention of this wouldn’t go up the chain. But he needed to figure out where Sonny would go, and what he’d do once he got there. In the meantime they’d just sweep up after him…

[Glades]

I really enjoyed the story, Robbie.
What´s amazing is that in the script of "Redemption in Blood" Sonny actually went to the marina and his boat and that helped him to regain his memory! Did you know the script?

Edited November 28, 2020 by Glades

[Matt5]

6 hours ago, Glades said:

I really enjoyed the story, Robbie.
What´s amazing is that in the script of "Redemption in Blood" Sonny actually went to the marina and his boat and that helped him to regain his memory! Did you know the script?

I agree just excellent !

[Matt5]

On 11/26/2020 at 6:52 PM, Robbie C. said:

The big Magnum felt somehow familiar in his hand, though he wasn’t sure why. He’d used a SIG since he’d started working for Miguel Manolo, and everything before that was a thick bank of fog in his mind. But like he’d said before, he knew this game.

The bent cop from Lauderdale was slow on the uptake. Maybe because he had his own gun out and ready. Or maybe because the badge made him lazy…too used to punks giving it up as soon as they saw the flash of silver.

The cop was talking now, and not making much sense. Making noise about how the two of them could go into business. Calling him Crockett or something and holding the little pocket pistol loose in his hand like it was a toy. He shook his head, tired of the game. “The name’s Burnett.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“That’s B-u-r-n-e-double t.” The boom of the magnum echoed out over the water, but Sonny was too busy cranking the twin engines on the go-fast boat to see the crooked cop’s body sprawled on the dock. The shot would bring heat, and he needed to get clear of the area before that happened. Or more of Manolo’s men showed up.

Sonny Burnett had been expecting trouble ever since Miguel Manolo sent him to take out the cop in the alley the night before. It was an easy enough job…walk up on the idiot in the dark and put two .45s in his chest. Even with the brewing storm he’d seen the guy wasn’t moving, sprawled in a pile of cardboard and garbage bags like the trash he’d been. It wasn’t the job that bothered him; it was the way Manolo had handed it to him. This one hadn’t been any different.

Wind whipped through his hair as he opened the throttles wide on the twin engines and gave the boat its head. He’d need a place to lie low now, both from Manolo’s shooters and the cops. And he’d have to come up with a plan to keep himself alive in the only game he knew. The roar of the engines worked its way into his head, pulling the kinks out of his thoughts and letting them slide together.

One thing about the drug game was there was always another buyer. For drugs. For information. And for security. Sonny figured he had information some people might want, and his record for providing security was well-known. He just needed a way in…an offering of sorts to ease his way into a new organization and show he was turning his back on Manolo at the same time. Reaching down, he eased back on the throttles a bit. No point in draining the tanks or blowing an engine.

 

Ricardo Tubbs ran through the post-modern mess of the gallery, his Smith & Wesson gripped in his hand. The two bruises on his chest burned like fire, but he didn’t slow his pace. The boom of the shot hit him like a brick and he tried to move faster. A shot meant one thing, and he had no illusion that Yagovitch could beat Sonny Crockett to the draw.

Pushing past two cowering gallery patrons he slammed through the back door, the snub nose revolver up and ready. His gaze flew from arcs of spray rising high from the back of a low-slung boat to a body on the dock with a gaping bloody wound in its chest and back to the boat. He knew what had happened without any further thought, and the single word ripped itself from his throat. “Sonny!!!!” But the boat was gone, a memory on the calm water. And the torn body of a dirty Lauderdale cop called Yagovitch was still piled on the dock like a bundle of bloody rags.

None of it made any sense. He looked around, trying to find a security camera. Anything that might help him understand what had happened here. His hand started to hurt, and he realized he had a death grip on the metal tubing rail of the back entryway. Relaxing his grip, he forced himself to holster his pistol and start down the stairs.

“Careful, Rico.” Rolando Jordan’s clear tones cut through the screams of the few patrons still in easy hearing distance. “IAD’s gonna wanna look at that.”

“Yeah, I bet they will.” But he stopped short of the body in spite of himself.

“Did you see it go down?”

“Naw. The boat was already away from the dock by the time I got out here.”

“But I heard you shout…”

“Reflex, man. It had to be Sonny, you know? But I didn’t see him. Didn’t see any of it.” He turned away from the mess that had been a dirty cop and nodded toward the camera. “See if you can get the tapes before they erase ‘em. If Manolo fronts this place, he’s gonna want to make every trace of his dirty work disappear.”

“You got it.” Rolando turned, then paused. “You think he did this, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’d bet he was defending himself. Yagovitch was a dirty cop. If he fingered me, and then saw me in the office, he might have spun some big line to that chump Manolo.”

Rolando nodded, but Rico could see the doubt in his eyes. Even at this distance. “Yeah, but he still shot a cop.”

“If you wanna call that piece of trash a cop.” Rico turned away, looking out to where the boat had vanished. “See if you can get the tape.” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but there was no going back. Rolando was a friend, but Sonny was his partner. And whatever was going on in his head was bad. No question about that. He just had to figure out what the hell was going on and how to get a step or two ahead of him. He also knew he needed to call Castillo.

“Good call on the tape, Rico.” Rolando stood in the doorway, a smile on his face and a black plastic rectangle clutched in his left hand. “I caught this young lady about to hit the erase button. Looks like she’ll get a nice ride downtown for attempted destruction of evidence, interfering in an investigation, and anything else we can think of.”

The girl looked familiar, but Rico had trouble focusing past her wide mouth. That just ain’t natural. But her voice was sharp. “I’ll be out of there in ten minutes.”

“Maybe so. But you ain’t gonna have that tape. And your boss ain’t gonna be happy we got it intact.” Rico smiled, seeing a flash of fear in her eyes. “An’ maybe we just let it slip that you brought us the tape.” He turned to Rolando. “Get her outa here.”

 

Compared to Manolo’s guest room the place wasn’t much, but it was away from Lauderdale and under the radar. Sonny Burnett looked around the room again, a tight smile pursing his lips. Somewhere between a flea-pit next to a truck stop and a Holiday Inn that had seen better decades, the place was calculated to draw no attention. A six month lease under a different name was enough to keep it quiet and private. Which for now was just what he needed.

He’d thought for a moment about keeping the boat, but ended up torching it close to where he’d finally come ashore. It was too easy for Manolo or the cops to track, and another burned-out go-fast wasn’t going to draw any extra attention along the South Florida coast. Not with the conflict between Manolo and a loose assortment of rival cartels heating up. Just the cost of doing business, and the police would be glad there weren’t any bodies to go along with the boat. Eventually it would track back to Manolo, but by then it wouldn’t matter.

Sitting on the bed, staring at the TV without seeing any of the images on the screen, Sonny felt the gears in his head meshing into place. Of all the families taking runs at Manolo’s operation, the one with the best chance of success was headed by Oscar Carrera. They weren’t as ruthless as Manolo, but they had a rock-solid shipping operation and were starting to expand their contacts south of the border. They were also random, hitting hard some days and laying back the next.

Familiar things. That’s what the doc said, right? He was annoyed he didn’t remember for sure, but he knew the idea was a good one. He’d already seen to the big Magnum, and now it was the SIG’s turn, broken down into its components on a towel on the bed ready for cleaning. There was something familiar about the smell of gun oil…something that pierced the fog in his head and also helped him think better.

As he wiped down the barrel, Sonny imagined he could hear Manolo’s people shaking the branches in hopes he’d fall out. Questions in bars, maybe even some rough stuff for that pretty little assistant of his, although the more he thought about it the more Sonny suspected Manolo had planted her in his bed to keep an eye on him. Still, the big man wouldn’t be happy and he’d want to take his frustration out on someone. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to feel bad for the girl. She’d known the price before she bought the ticket and climbed on the ride.

The cop in the alley, if it had even been a cop, was a problem for another day. The decision felt good, and he shoved everything relating to that night into a box in the corner of his mind to be opened later. Making contact with Carrera was his first priority, followed quickly by convincing the old man he wasn’t a plant or on a mission to kill him. He didn’t think as much about the kid. Word on the street was Mikey liked his blow more than he liked the responsibilities that went with the family business. And that left Sonny dealing with wily old Oscar.

Slotting the barrel into the slide, Sonny smiled. By now Manolo would have shut down every pipeline Sonny had worked, hoping to minimize any damage. But Miguel had no way of knowing just how much digging Sonny had been doing in the last couple of weeks. Storage houses. Names of dealers. Contacts in Customs. A whole little black book of introduction for Oscar Carrera. But Sonny wouldn’t show up empty-handed, either.

Slamming a full magazine into the butt of the SIG, he worked the slide and smiled as it ran forward, locking a fresh round into place. Flicking on the safety, he stuffed the silver and black pistol into a shoulder rig. At first he’d carried it on his waist, but something just didn’t feel natural about it. When he switched to a shoulder rig all that changed. Walking over, he turned off the TV before stopping to check his dark silk suit and hair in the mirror. It was time to go to work.

Miami had given herself over to flickering neon and warm tropical night air by the time he left the apartment building. He paused just inside the entryway, getting his bearings and letting the air wash over him. It always triggered something in him, some distant memory just out of reach but enough to make his heart start beating faster.

His second-hand Camero was parked down the street, just far enough away to draw out anyone trying to watch him and the car at the same time. He started it up and eased into traffic, knowing he had two stops to make before returning to the apartment. The first one was strictly personal, while the second was all business.

Somehow his hands knew the way to the marina and the address listed on his Florida driver’s license. He’d never actually gone to the boat, knowing if the cops were still out there they’d be watching it like the creatures of habit they were. But he still drove by from time to time, never in the same car and never at the same time. He couldn’t explain why he did it, even to himself. Maybe he’d flash on something looking at the little sailboat, or the drive would trigger some memory buried deep in his head. But some nights, like tonight, he did it just because.

He turned into the big parking lot, switching over to glowing yellow running lights and letting the car crawl down the parking lanes, rolling past Porsches, Corvettes, and some damned green van parked near the marina office. Out of some buried habit he almost pulled into a spot, but forced himself to keep rolling at the same even pace. Out on the water he could see boats of various sizes bobbing in the slight swell, their cabin lights floating up and down and the mast lights twinkling like distant Christmas trees. He almost stopped again, but forced himself to roll on. Something didn’t feel quite right. Like someone was watching. Maybe this was a mistake. Damn it! Focus and keep moving. We got work to do yet tonight.

Another thirty feet and he turned back onto the main road and accelerated away. His second stop was on the other side of the city, and he had a schedule to keep.

 

“I don’t know why the hell we’re here. He ain’t gonna show.”

There was an edge to Stan’s voice floating through the earpiece, and Rico bit back a sharp reply. “Just humor me, Stan. Ok?”

“Yeah, yeah.” The voice changed. “We got a car coming through. Late model Camero with Florida plates. I’ll call ‘em in. Looks like one occupant, but the light sucks out here.”

“Tell me about it.” Rico shifted in his observation post in one of the small office buildings overlooking the marina. They’d blanketed that damned boat early on, but over time surveillance bled down from two teams to one, and then just an occasional drive-by. But the events in Lauderdale had stirred Castillo into action, or at least enough for him to give Stan to Rico for a couple of nights. “We have too many active cases to devote much time to this,” he’d said in his whisper.

Peering through the high-powered night binoculars, Rico found the car. No headlights, and it’s moving slow. He fiddled with the focus. Can’t see the driver for shit. Damned tinted windows! There oughta be a law… Shifting, he tried again and then keyed the radio. “You get a look at the driver?”

“Naw. Hidin’ behind those blacked-out windows he might as well be Elvis himself out for a cruise.” There was a pause. “Car comes back registered to Nick Jacobs. Lauderdale address. No tickets or warrants on the name or the car.”

“Solid.” Rico kept starting through the binoculars. Put the damned window down! Light a smoke! Anything. I got this damned feeling… “He stopping at all?”

“Naw. Slowed down once, but picked it up right away again.” Stan had managed to slip the Bug Van in close to the action. And he had better gear. “I got shots of the car, but whoever’s driving is bent on staying a man of mystery. Even dimmed his damned dash lights. That ain’t a Crockett trick, is it?”

“No.” But Rico couldn’t shake the feeling. Still, with no probable cause any stop they made would go right out the window. And if it was Sonny and he was messed up… “You think he made you?”

“Naw. If it’s Sonny and he’s gone off the reservation, don’t you think he would have started blasting right away?”

Rico wanted to argue, but he couldn’t. Not really. If that had been Sonny in Lauderdale he was damned quick on the trigger. And not disposed to miss. His ribs still hurt from the two big .45 slugs the vest had blocked, and Yagovitch had been killed by a single shot to the heart from a reasonable distance for a handgun. “Fair enough” was all he could manage.

“And it looks like whoever it is is done for the night. The Camero just left the lot. You want me to try a tail?”

Yes. “No, we’d better hold position in case he comes back.” Rico looked at his watch, the luminous dots jumping out at him in the dark room. “But only for another hour.”

“Roger that.”

Rico grinned at the relief he heard in Stan’s voice. It was hard to stay mad at the big guy. Or even irritated. He gave his best to every case, and he hadn’t had the best time since his partner was murdered. Sometimes he wondered what Stan did when they closed up shop for the day. Before he and Larry had gone off wherever, but now he seemed pretty much alone. Rico had thought about reaching out a time or two, but there’d always been tension between the surveillance expert and Sonny. But now…

Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to the binos. He and Stan had exactly zero in common, and on top of it all he didn’t much care for Elvis. But he couldn’t shake the feeling something had been up with that car.

 

Most of Manolo’s stash houses were hidden in plain sight. A condo just back from the high-rent belt along the water. The back room of a gallery that might make the B-list one day. Never in a club or bar. Sonny knew of some, and he’d learned about more trading shots with runners waiting for their next call. He smiled in the darkness of the car. Manolo might think big, but his transportation was strictly small time.

He’d learned about this house from a skinny Cubano whose hands shook when he poured tequila and giggled just a bit too much. The guy was good with cars - better with boats - so the organization kept him around and tolerated his quirks. Ernesto was older than he looked, and Sonny learned one night that the shakes came from a stint in one of Castro’s guest houses.

Parked under one of the palms dotting both sides of the wide boulevard, he let his eyes wander over the parked cars and dark windows until he found the right house. The neighborhood was just on the edge of the city where trailer courts gave way to tract housing and ambitions took root. Often the ambition didn’t make it out of the cul de sac, and ‘for sale’ signs decorated more than a few yards. But out here police patrols were scarce, and Manolo’s security was likewise lax. “Never more than four guys in there,” Ernesto had insisted after his fifth shot. “Hell, most times I go by there ain’t more than two. One awake, one usually asleep or jerkin’ off in the back bedroom.”

Sonny eased the Camero’s door open, cursing the overhead light. He’d never worked this neighborhood before, so he figured Manolo wouldn’t have upped security. But if he had, the weight of the SIG gave him confidence. Closing the door just enough to kill the light he make his way down the street, ducking off the sidewalk as soon as the neighboring house’s straggling hedge gave him cover. The .45 filled his hand now, and he made no noise as he moved through grass that hadn’t been cut in weeks. His dark silk suit turned him into a shadow gliding over the ground. Then he was at the back door and testing the knob.

Assholes didn’t even lock the door! Standing to the side, he eased it open a crack and risked a look in. Jumping rays of color shot down the hall from what he guessed was a TV in the front of the house, and he could hear faint strains of what sounded like theme music. He stepped into the kitchen, avoiding a jumble of empty beer bottles by the door, and moved to the hall. He could see through a partly open door into the back bedroom, and snoring and a dark shape told him where one of the guards was. Sliding into the room, he cracked the sleeping man hard with the SIG; not enough to kill but enough for him to wake up with a hell of a headache. A quick look around showed him a Beretta on the beside table and not much else in the room.

The guy in the front room was as easy as the one in bed; slumped in an easy chair with an empty Bud bottle in his lap and four more around his feet staring at Dragnet on the TV. He started to come to his feet, then sank back when he saw the pistol leveled at his gut. “Easy does it, pal. Where’s the product?”

“Burnett? Did the boss send you?”

He smiled. “Something like that. Security test and you failed. Where’s the product?” He shifted the SIG for emphasis.

“Trap door in the hall closet.” The chunky man sighed and let his head fall. “Guess we failed, right?”

“Something like that.” Keeping the .45 on the man, Sonny walked to the door and opened it. “Top or bottom?”

“Hunh? Oh, yeah. Bottom. There’s a ring.”

Feeling with his fingers, his eyes never leaving the guard, Sonny found the ring and pulled. A section of floor came up with a squealing of wood and he saw the plain black gym bag Manolo preferred for all product. “Twenty, right?”

“Yeah. Hey, can you tell the boss we were awake at least?”

“Sure.” He was at the chair in two steps and cracked the man in the back of the head with the pistol. “Not that it’ll help you much,” he muttered to the unconscious figure. “Hell, Manolo will probably have you both killed. I know I would.” Five minutes later he was back in the car, the duffle bag secure in the back seat, heading for a payphone he’d scouted three days before. It was time to reach out and touch someone. And twenty kilos of free Bolivian marching dust was a hell of a calling card.

 

Martin Castillo looked down the length of the conference table, his eyes narrowed to hide the redness. It had been days since he slept properly, something he didn’t see changing in the immediate future. “Lauderdale’s taking it as a homicide. Switek, what do we know about that camera footage?”

“You mean the stuff Lauderdale tried to say didn’t exist?” Stan’s eyes narrowed. “If Rico here hadn’t have been there with good ol’ Sergeant Jordan the tape would have either been erased by Manolo’s lady friend or ‘lost’ by Broward County’s finest.”

Castillo shook his head. “The tape.”

“Sorry, lieutenant. The angle’s not good, and the girl did manage to wipe the first five seconds or so.” Stan turned on the TV and VCR. “Now if you look here” - he paused the tape - “you can see the back of someone’s head in the boat and that scumbag Yagovitch facing him. Good view on scumbag, no view on our suspect.” He pointed. “Note scumbag has a pistol in his hand.” He hit play again. “There’s no audio, and the camera’s set to watch the door and maybe a sliver of the loading dock so the angle’s not the best.”

Castillo nodded. He’d watched the tape at least ten times since Tubbs brought it in, both at regular speed and slowed down so much it was almost frame by frame. “Yagovitch isn’t making an arrest.” It wasn’t a question.

Trudy spoke up, her voice low. “No, lieutenant. It looks like he’s trying to make a deal. Like he’s holding all the cards.”

Looking across the room, he saw Gina looking down at her hands. Not wanting to see what was happening on the screen. “Is that what you think, Detective Calabrese?”

“I…I don’t know what I think. Sure, that could be it, I guess. But do we even know if the guy in the boat is Sonny?”

Tubbs nodded. “Hard to miss those golden locks, even at this distance with a crappy camera.”

Castillo watched as Yagovitch motioned with his pistol. The other man shook his head, and then a big Magnum appeared from nowhere, its muzzle flare captured in choppy black and white by the camera.

Gina’s voice was flat when she spoke. “If that’s Sonny, it’s clearly self-defense.”

“We don’t know what it is.” But Castillo knew, or figured he did. Deep down where it mattered. He recognized the way Sonny Crockett held a weapon…he’d seen it enough times before. Maybe Yagovitch had threatened him, maybe he hadn’t. There was no way to tell for sure. But Yagovitch had been on Miguel Manolo’s payroll. He’d ratted out Tubbs, and Manolo had sent his best shooter after him. And when the hit failed, Manolo sent Yagovitch after the shooter. It was the only line of thought that made sense, but it also meant Tubbs had been right about who’d taken those two shots at him in the alley. And there was no way Crockett could have known Tubbs was wearing a vest.

He rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Something about this whole thing wasn’t right. “We’re not supposed to be working this case, so we won’t. But I want you all to use your informants. Find out what Manolo’s thinking and how he’s moving. He is still our case. Yagovitch’s leak about Tubbs might buy us some warrants.” He looked down at the battered surface of the table. “That’s all for now. Trudy, a moment.”

They left the room quietly, with none of the banter Castillo expected from his squad. Once the door shut he turned to Trudy. “How’s Gina holding up?”

Trudy shook her head. “That’s a dumb question, lieutenant. She’s still got feelings for Crockett, and seeing him shoot a cop ain’t easy for her.”

“You think it’s him in the boat.” Again it wasn’t a question.

“You know his moves the same as I do. It had to be him.” Trudy snorted, her long, dark hair bobbing against her shoulders with the motion. “Just like it had to be him in that alley with Tubbs. The question you aren’t asking me is why.”

“Keep an eye on Gina. She’s got time due. If it gets too tough for her, convince her to take some of it.” He looked down for a moment, gathering his thoughts. “We don’t know what happened to Crockett on the boat or afterwards. If he was on the boat, the explosion could have caused some kind of damage.” That and the stress he was under. I saw tougher men snap in Laos under that kind of pressure.

“So you don’t think he went over?”

“No.” The answer came out unbidden, surprising him. “If he was, he wouldn’t have shot Yagovitch. But we need to keep working Manolo.” He paused for a moment, wanting to say more but knowing it was a bad idea. “Thank you.”

She looked at him for a moment before smiling slightly and heading back out to the squad room. Alone with his thoughts, Castillo closed his eyes for a handful of heartbeats. Even if Crockett didn’t go over, he’s out there making his own moves. And he’s extremely dangerous. We need to get a handle on this. Soon. I just wish I knew how.

 

The alley dominated his dream, dark and swept by a sharp wind pushing trash in front of it like brittle storm clouds. Flashes of lightning lit the stucco and brick walls like random disco strobes, and he narrowed his eyes against the glare and wind-propelled dust. There was fog, too, but he didn’t remember fog from when it happened outside the dream.

The other man started at far end of the alley, too far down for him to see his fate approaching. He was saying something, his voice obscured by the wind, but it didn’t matter. This wasn’t a deal. It was an execution. Manolo had said so.

The pistol kicked in his hand once, then again. Then the fog suddenly lifted and he saw the face. Familiar but yet strange. The man wasn’t dead. His lips moved, forming sounds. Leaning forward, ears pricked against the wind, he tried to hear. “Sonny!”

Eyes wide and staring at the blown popcorn ceiling, Sonny Burnett sat up in bed. The sheets were soaked in his sweat, and he could smell the stale Black Jack in his pores. Shaking his head, he staggered into the apartment’s tiny kitchen and filled a glass at the sink. This wasn’t the first time he’d had the dream, but it was the first time the man had spoken. What the hell did it mean? But in a way he was glad it wasn’t the beach dream again.

The water felt good on his whisky-dried throat, and he poured another before padding back to the bedroom and sitting down on the bed. He knew he should be happy. The call had gone according to plan, and a glance at his watch told him he’d be making his first move in less than six hours.

Old Oscar had been suspicious, of course. Sonny didn’t blame him. It wasn’t every day your main rival’s head of security called up with an offer of twenty keys and information in exchange for a job. But he’d studied the Carreras, father and son, and knew he’d made the right play.

A smile played across his face when he thought back to the question that sealed things. Oscar’s voice was a growl over the line. “Word is you’re a cop, Burnett. Right from the mouth of Miguel Manolo himself.”

“If I was a cop, would I have killed a cop? Ask him how his pet Lauderdale cop’s feeling with a .44 slug in his guts. But you’d better get one of those ghost whisperers for him if he wants an answer.”

“Good point, Sonny!” The man’s laugh was more of a roar down the line. “Ain’t never seen a cop who’d shoot another cop.”

“Also ask him who put a .45 through Gutierrez’s face. It sure as hell wasn’t Miguel Manolo.”

Chuckling, he laid back on the bed and closed his eyes. But it was no use. For a fleeting moment he missed Polly Wheeler, but he chased her memory away. There’d always been something lurking behind her, a slender shadow he couldn’t put a face to but who cut him to the bone any time he caught even a fleeting glimpse. My damned head’s scrambled enough I don’t need to try to make it worse. I can still hear that damned doctor asking ‘do you know who you are?’ And the answer’s still the same.

He left the apartment wearing the same loose suit he’d worn in the alley. It was a bit of a drive from his fleapit to the sprawling compound the Carreras called home, and he took his time. Why risk a ticket from some over-eager cop and have the moron find the twenty keys riding comfortably in back? Sure, he could always shoot the cop, but they always called in traffic stops before leaving the damned patrol car. He’d be made either way.

The guy at the gate had invested all his genetics in muscles. “Call the boss,” Sonny repeated, getting bored. “He’s expecting me. The name’s Burnett. And if you get your hand near that gun again your boss is gonna have to find another ape to open the door.”

The insult seemed to spark some kind of primitive memory, and the goon turned and stepped inside the guard shack that looked like it had been stolen from the set of some old Foreign Legion movie. For a moment an image flashed in front of Sonny’s eyes…an old brick and mortar fort somewhere tropical crumbling from neglect and obvious violence. It faded before he could try to understand it, and the big guy was back. “You check out.” He hit a button and the gate started to grind open. “And you ain’t got the stones…”

Sonny grinned behind his Ray Bans as he slipped the SIG back into the shoulder rig. “And you’d be dead, asshole.” He hit the gas, spraying the white wall with gravel as the tires bit and he accelerated into the main compound.

Where Miguel Manolo was modern and subdued, Oscar Carrera had gone to his architect and told him to make the place look like Scarface. Parking the car, Sonny let his eyes wander over the white columns, arches that couldn’t decide if they were Spanish or Roman, and a shimmering between the shrubs hinting at at least one pool in the back part of the grounds. It was the house of a man who’d made it, and wanted you to know he’d made it. And if he was any judge the dump was a security nightmare.

Oscar Carrera wasn’t a big man, but his voice boomed and his every move radiated energy and barely contained violence. Training in his wake was a skinny, angular character Sonny recognized as Miguel Carrera, the son and appointed heir to the organization. Oscar’s voice reached out to him before the man was through the double front doors. “Sonny! Right on time. See, Miguel, this is a man who knows his business.”

“And more importantly I know Miguel Manolo’s business.” Sonny set the black bag down on the concrete walkway and took a step back. “You want to check the calling card?”

The kid started forward, only to be held back by his father’s voice. “Are we animals? Peasants? You are said to be a man of your word, and if you say it’s twenty, it’s twenty. Come! Bring it inside and we’ll talk.”

Inside the place was all vaulted ceilings and art taken from some Italian palace somewhere. Oscar led the way to a room fitted with a big desk and a commanding view of the Olympic-size pool in the back. Sonny followed, noticing how Miguel fell into last position without batting an eye. Lots of anger there. And not too much skill. Might be something I can use. He was still rolling the thought around in his head when the old man waved a big hand. “Just put it on the desk, Sonny. And tell me to my face why Manolo’s great head of security wants to join my little organization.”

Setting the gym bag on the oak desk top, Sonny flashed his deal-maker smile. “Hard to stay with a boss when he starts spreading rumors you’re a cop. Or when he tries to have you killed.”

Miguel’s smile was more of a coke-addled snarl, and Sonny saw another weakness. “Hard to trust a man who takes the word of a dirty cop over yours.”

“My thoughts exactly. Besides, old Manolo’s too busy talking to his damned chickens and not tending to business.” Sonny paused, then played a card he was sure Carrera couldn’t ignore. “He’s getting soft.”

Oscar turned to his son and grinned. “This is what I was talking about. Our moment. But what else do you bring? Not that I don’t appreciate twenty keys, you understand.”

“Yeah, I get it. I can give you at least half of Manolo’s transportation network.” Sonny raised a hand. “Yeah, I know he’ll change the parts I worked with, but what he doesn’t know is I was doing some digging on my own. This product came from a stash house he didn’t think I knew about. See, Manolo likes to contract out his transportation. Too much for my taste. So he’s got these houses scattered around. And the few runs he controls are essential to his business. Take them down, and he’s got nothing.”

“So a few names and addresses.”

“No, Mikey. You also get me. Running security. Keeping your old man alive. And you. I had a look at the place when I came in, and so far you guys have been lucky. That ape at the gate doesn’t look like he could pick his nose without a how-to movie, and you don’t have near enough cameras on those walls. And make no mistake. If you take out Manolo you’ll both be wearing big targets on your foreheads.”

Oscar’s laugh boomed off the walls. “See? This is what we need.” He came around the desk and unzipped the bag, pulling out a wrapped bag of coke and tossing it to his son. “Have that tested. I want to talk to Sonny.” Once the kid was gone, Oscar leaned back against the desk and sighed. “I keep hoping he’ll grow into the job.”

“Give him time.” Sonny knew Miguel wasn’t growing anything aside from a habit, but this wasn’t the time. “And let me guess. You want me to lead your boys after at least one of Manolo’s operations. A test.”

“More a show of good faith. I may trust you, but my men won’t until they see you spill Manolo blood.”

And you won’t fully trust me until I do that. Closing the door on going back to Manolo for good. Sonny nodded. “I get it. But we’ll have to hit soon. Manolo’s going to be beating the bushes looking for me, even more so since I hit his stash house. Eventually he’ll start rearranging his networks, but right now he’s mad so he’ll be focused on me. That buys us some time.”

“Good! But now we have a drink.” Oscar looked toward the door. “And what does the kit say?”

Miguel’s face was contorted into what passed for a smile of admiration. “Almost 97% pure. Sonny here brought us the good stuff.”

“Nothing less than the best.” Sonny smiled to cover his own annoyance. “But if we’re gonna do this we gotta move soon. Manolo knows I hit his stash house. I left his guys alive so they’d tell him.”

“That was reckless!”

“No,” Oscar said with a big grin, “that was smart. Throws that arrogant prick off balance. It’s like walking up and telling him you ain’t afraid of him at all.”

“Something like that.” It also means if Manolo doesn’t kill them they owe me their lives. Might be useful later. “But once he’s done being pissed he’ll start moving product around.”

“How many men will you need?”

“Depends on the message you want to send, Mr. Carrera. His boys hit one of your shipments last week. We can hit one back, or two to show him we mean business.” He paused. “That could kick off a war.”

Something changed in Oscar’s eyes. “I think we’ve got that covered, Sonny. Hit two of them. Miguel, get the crews ready.”

Sonny nodded, the gears in his head turning. Sneaky old bastard’s got someone on the inside of Manolo’s organization. And with me gone, there’s no close-in security anymore. If I were him, I’d use the mess of two stash houses going down to take out the boss.

Oscar was still talking, but Sonny was only half-listening. He’d already turned his attention to the hits. Or more exactly the one he’d control. His audition. He’d picked the harder of the two locations for his team with that in mind. In normal times Manolo had four men on it, but he had enough manpower to add at least two more guns. And since the place held almost eighty keys Sonny figured the man would up his security as much as he could.

“Sonny? You hear me?”

“Sorry, Mr. Carrera. I was planning the hit.”

“All business, eh? Good man. Let me take you down. Meet the boys. My guy, Pancho, is gonna run the other crew. How much you think is at that house?”

“Forty keys. Maybe a bit more or less depending on when the last shipment went out. Three guns, maybe four if Manolo brings in all his shooters.”

“And the one you’re taking?”

“Eighty. And up to six guns.”

Oscar whistled. “You don’t screw around, do you?”

“Do you?”

“Good point, Sonny. I said I want to go to war, you make it happen. But it’ll be a short war, and there will be much time to pick up the pieces.” Oscar looked around as they walked. “You think I need cameras? Better men?”

“If you poke Manolo with a stick, he’s gonna come after you. I just think you need to be ready. And if you bring him down, others are gonna want a share of that action.”

“We’ll talk when you get back, Sonny. I want to hear your ideas.” He paused as they neared the gravel lot where Miguel was assembling men into two rough groups. “I need to ask. Does Manolo have much personal security?”

There it is. “With me gone? Not really. He’ll bring guys in, but they’re not as good as me so they’ll make mistakes.” Sonny grinned. “You want to hit him? Get him when he goes to look at those damned roosters of his. Little place outside Lauderdale that looks like it stepped right out of the Third World. Says he likes it that way. And he goes there any time he’s under stress.”

“A creature of habit? I’ll remember that.” Oscar laughed. “The only habit I have is my wife. When you see her you’ll understand. But it looks like my son has the crews ready. I’ll make the introductions and then you can take over.”

 

Ricardo Tubbs sat at his desk, staring at the note pad without seeing the writing. He could understand why Castillo wanted them back on Manolo, but it didn’t mean he agreed with the call. Sonny was still out there somewhere, and something was seriously wrong with him.

Looking over he saw Gina doing the same thing he was. This has got to be hitting her hard. She’s been carrying a torch for him for so long, I don’t know that she sees anything else. Shaking his head, he looked down at the notepad and the draft of his report from the other night’s surveillance. Something pinged in his head and he got to his feet. “Stan! You ever run that name we got from the car at the marina?”

Switek looked up. “Sure I did. Came back to some guy in Lauderdale, remember?”

Rico walked across the squad room. “Yeah, but did we ever check the address?”

Stan punched some keys on the terminal in front of him. “Now that’s funny. The address comes back as a liquor store. No connection to anyone named Jacobs. According to the state’s license logs, the guy who owns the dump is Victor Hanks.” He tapped more keys. “And he’s got no criminal record or known ties.”

“Could this Jordan cat be a cousin? Second wife’s kid? Anything?”

More keys tapped. “That’s where it gets funny. Registration for the car tracks just fine, but the license doesn’t. I can’t get a hit in the state system.”

“So what did Dispatch run the other night?”

“Damned if I know, Rico. Maybe just the plate and they settled for what they got.” Stan shrugged. “Until they get these things to the point we can hit the database ourselves, ain’t no way to tell what Dispatch ran.”

“So what we’ve got is a chump who used a fake ID to register a vehicle legally to an address that won’t check at all?”

“Yeah, but it looks good if some beat cop runs the plate just because. Car comes back registered, and the name it’s tied to comes back clean because Nick Jacobs is clean.” Stan tapped more keys. “He’s some insurance salesman over by Daytona. Doesn’t look like he’s even had a parking ticket.”

“Whoever did this knew the system and how a typical cop would run someone.” Rico shook his head, not liking where his mind was leading him. “Stan, that was Sonny we saw the other night!”

“So why didn’t he go to the boat? You think he made us?”

“No.” Rico shook his head. “No, I don’t. But his Burnett ID used the boat as his address. If his head’s messed up he might have been looking at it to see if it triggered anything. Memories. You know.”

“I guess.” Stan didn’t sound convinced. “What are we gonna tell the lieutenant?”

Rico thought for a moment. “We’ll tell him we spotted a white Camero that came back registered to Nick Jacobs. We couldn’t visually ID the driver, and the car didn’t stick around long.”

“But none of the rest?”

“No. It’s just us thinkin’ out loud right now, Stan. We got no evidence, and you know he likes evidence.” Rico let annoyance bleed into his voice. “Besides, this don’t get us closer to that chump Manolo. And he’s the flavor of the month now.” He relented when he still saw the doubt in Stan’s eyes. “Look, if he asks you, tell him it was my call. I’ll take the heat.”

Back at his desk, he started typing the report. But his mind wouldn’t stay still. Why was Sonny running under a false name? And why the hell did he come back to the marina? If there was something messed up in his head, what was it and was there a way to snap him out of it? He’d thought IDing the car would clear some things up, but it left him with more questions and no damned answers. Including where Sonny Crockett was, both physically and mentally.

 

“You sure that’s it?”

Sonny Burnett looked over at the Carrera shooter. “I said it is, didn’t I? And your boss put me in charge. Manolo doesn’t hide his product in plain sight.”

He could understand the man’s question, though. Not only was the place not in Lauderdale, it was a damned coffee shop. Granted the sign in the window read “closed for remodel…see you soon”, but it was still a coffee shop. But that had been Manolo’s genius; hiding things where people didn’t expect them to be.

They’d driven around the place once, letting Sonny get a feel for the terrain. Carrera sent six men with him in two cars, and he left two at the front. “Keep ‘em bottled in. If they break for it, use the shotguns.” Then he turned to the other four. “We’ll go in through the back. That alley gives us nice cover from the street. There will be one guy on the back door, maybe two if he’s beefed up security. I’ll go in first. The product is in the back room, hidden in the crawl space according to the guy I talked to. There’s a trap door near one of the prep tables.”

Pancho nodded. “Sounds good. Then we get to see how you handle yourself.”

Sonny adjusted his Ray Bans and checked the heavy SIG, pulling the slide back a bit to check the round seated in the chamber. “And I get to see if you bozos are worth what Carrera pays you. Let’s get to work.”

The afternoon heat hit him like a hammer as he stepped out of the air-conditioned Mercedes. A quick look showed him it was clear, and Sonny strode down the alley to the back door of the coffee shop. It didn’t look to be reinforced, which told him there were always guys in the place. He checked to make sure the Carrera men were behind him, and then he smiled. Knocking on the door, he announced in a loud voice. “I got a delivery for Sundown Coffee. No one’s up front so I had to come back here.”

There was a pause, and a voice muffled by the door replied. “We ain’t expecting no delivery.”

“Look, man. It’s hotter than hell out here. And my boss is gonna kick my ass if I get back late again. All you gotta do is sign.”

The voice was louder this time, like the man was standing just behind the door. “I told you, asshole, we…”

Rearing back, Sonny kicked the door open. He didn’t remember where he’d learned the technique, but it was as wired into his reflects as walking. The shattering door caught the first gunman square in the chest, sending him back four feet. Stepping through, Sonny put two .45 slugs in his chest, the twin shots sounding like thunder in the small space of the back room. He kept moving, opening the way for the men behind him. He could hear shouts past the ringing in his ears and kept his head shifting as he moved.

The next target came through a side door, some kind of 9mm tracking before Sonny put two more .45s in his chest. He was flowing now, moving with an ease he didn’t know he had. Shots behind him told him Carrera’s men were earning their pay, and then he dropped another gunman trying to dive through the curtained opening separating the kitchen from the main café. Two shots again, but one taking the man in the head.

As quickly as it began it was over. Six men sprawled dead, the stink of their blood and voided bowels overwhelming everything else in the café. One of his guys had caught a random slug in the arm, but it wasn’t anything to worry about. Sonny also noticed they were giving him more space than they had before. No surprise. Blowing away three guys in as many minutes gets some street cred with these boys. Flicking on the SIG’s safety he changed magazines before stuffing it back in its holster. “Let’s get moving, ladies. Won’t take long for the cops to show up, and we have eighty keys to move.”

The stash was right where the drunken driver had said it would be, hidden in the crawl space behind a trap door…all neatly packaged and ready for shipment. By the time they’d loaded it in the two cars Sonny could hear sirens in the distance. “Let’s go!” he shouted, waving toward the cars. “Move! The boss is expecting us for dinner!”

They were two miles away from the café before Pancho found his voice. “That was some fancy shooting, Burnett. I’d heard the stories, but…”

“Yeah. Always different when you see the real thing.” Sonny allowed the man a slight grin, feeling himself drift into a dark place he usually went after jobs like this. When the adrenalin faded and he was left with himself and seeing what he’d done.

It had been easy. Almost too easy. And it was plain to see Oscar Carrera had bigger plans for the Manolo cartel, including the removal of the man himself. What wasn’t clear is if Oscar understood what would come next. There’d be a vacuum, with smaller outfits scrambling in to snatch up the pieces of Manolo’s operation. Was Oscar ready for that kind of fight? From what Sonny had seen today, he doubted it.

And then there was the inside man. Who had he slipped into Manolo’s inner circle? Sonny had been close, but not close enough to know every face. But from what he’d seen of the bunch, transportation was Manolo’s biggest weakness, followed by long-range planning. He’d been so busy grasping, fighting like those damned roosters he loved so much, he never stopped to think about what came next.

Sonny Burnett smiled. He spent quite a bit of time thinking about what came next. Which is how he’d ended up in this car. He’d stay loyal to Carrera. For as long as it took him to build an organization. Then he’d see what came next.

 

Martin Castillo set the report down as he finished reading. “What do you think about the white car?”

Ricardo Tubbs shrugged. “Someone Manolo sent to check out the boat? I don’t know.”

Why is he lying about this? “And you expect me to believe that, detective?”

Rico sighed. “Look, lieutenant, Switek and I tried to chase down the owner’s name and got nowhere. But it was done well enough to fool a patrol cop running the plate on a whim. I know we didn’t see the driver, but I think it was Sonny.”

“Why?”

“If his head’s scrambled, he’d try to find out who he was, right? And the ID he had for Burnett listed the boat as his address. So it makes sense he’d drive by just to see if anything…”

The office door burst open and Trudy came in. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just got a call about a shooting at the Sundown Coffee Shop. Place has been closed for a couple of weeks, but the responding units found six bodies and evidence of narcotics activity. The place is owned by one of Manolo’s front companies, so they called us.”

Castillo nodded. “Tubbs, take Joplin and Switek to the scene. And have Calabrese join you as soon as she brings me the report on that house that was hit the other night. It looks like someone’s taking out Manolo’s stash houses and we need to get ahead of this before too many bodies pile up.”

Alone in the office, he rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. Trying to fight off an inevitable headache. He knew Tubbs was right about Crockett being at the marina, and guessed he was also right about the reason. It was the why that bothered him. Shaking his head, he picked up the surveillance report again. He knew mention of this wouldn’t go up the chain. But he needed to figure out where Sonny would go, and what he’d do once he got there. In the meantime they’d just sweep up after him…

Nice piece and detail @Robbie C. Thankyou for the time you put into this.

 

 

[Robbie C.]

7 hours ago, Glades said:

I really enjoyed the story, Robbie.
What´s amazing is that in the script of "Redemption in Blood" Sonny actually went to the marina and his boat and that helped him to regain his memory! Did you know the script?

I have the script for both Mirror Image and Redemption in Blood. Hostile Takeover is the one I don't have from the Burnett run. I drew the idea from the doctor mentioning his ID. It would have an address, and in keeping with his cover it would have to be the boat. This early on, I figured the odds were good someone would still be watching it. I liked the idea of having Crockett and Tubbs pass within inches of each other and not really knowing it. Sonny's thorough enough as Burnett he'd want to check the address, even knowing the risks.

When I write these, I may watch the episode just before events I want to work with, but I try to avoid any episodes after that if I can. In this case I watched the last ten minutes or so of Mirror Image to catch the nuances of his encounter with Yagovitch (I opted to use the name he had in the concluding episodes...he was Hagovitch in Mirror Image and something different in the draft script I have). I also watched it because there are some major differences between the script and what was shot, and in this case I prefer what was shot. Which isn't always the case...

Edited November 28, 2020 by Robbie C.

[Glades]

1 hour ago, Robbie C. said:

I have the script for both Mirror Image and Redemption in Blood. Hostile Takeover is the one I don't have from the Burnett run. I drew the idea from the doctor mentioning his ID. It would have an address, and in keeping with his cover it would have to be the boat. This early on, I figured the odds were good someone would still be watching it. I liked the idea of having Crockett and Tubbs pass within inches of each other and not really knowing it. Sonny's thorough enough as Burnett he'd want to check the address, even knowing the risks.

When I write these, I may watch the episode just before events I want to work with, but I try to avoid any episodes after that if I can. In this case I watched the last ten minutes or so of Mirror Image to catch the nuances of his encounter with Yagovitch (I opted to use the name he had in the concluding episodes...he was Hagovitch in Mirror Image and something different in the draft script I have). I also watched it because there are some major differences between the script and what was shot, and in this case I prefer what was shot. Which isn't always the case...

Thank you very much for describing your writing process a bit, very intersting!

As far as I know, there is no script for "Hostile Takeover" anymore. At least not from scriptcity. I would like it very much.

In the script of "Redemption in Blood" Sonny visits St. Vitus only after the second explosion and after he left Celeste. Thus not at the beginning of his Burnett phase, but at the very end. Just before Sonny enters the OCB and instead of walking back in the crowd and on the beach. A scene that I find filmed much better, more impressive, clearer than in the script.
But I think it makes also a lot of sense, that Sonny came back to the St. Vituis as early as you describe it. He simply and understandably wants to know who he is.

 

Edited November 28, 2020 by Glades

[Robbie C.]

Glad you enjoyed it! I don't mind talking about the process behind these. Like when I wrote The Last Stop I didn't rewatch Out Where the Busses Don't Run until pretty late in the process, and that was mostly to make sure I had Hank Weldon's voice down as well as I could. I also wanted the closing to exactly mimic what we saw at the end of that episode.

Another thing I've noticed with ScriptCity...it's almost impossible to find scripts from the episodes that centered on Trudy (The Dutch Oven and Missing Hours spring immediately to mind). What they're missing is sometimes more interesting than what they have... although it's interesting that they have two versions of OWTBDR (under that title and an earlier version called Off the Wall).

[mjcmmv]

You filled in the gaps that left us hanging during that period between Mirror Image and Hostile Takeover! Now,  things make more sense, and there are fewer questions. 

Good story. I'm really glad you're writing MV again!

 

[Robbie C.]

Glad as always you enjoyed it.