Boomerang

[Robbie C.]

Sonny Crockett watched as Ricardo Tubbs leaned back in his desk chair, turning it so he could see out the wide office window. “Damn! All those years in OCB with nothin’ but gym locker room glass blocks and now we get the whole city to look at.”

“You got that right, Rico.” Sonny grinned at his partner’s enthusiasm. “Feds know how to live right. You gotta give ‘em that much.”

“You can’t deny we sure as hell earned the view, though, partner. Takin’ down Maynard, Moncado, that chump Holmes, Doc…”

“Yeah.” Sonny closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting to think back to when Castillo had been shot. “Guess you could say that. I gotta wonder, though…”

“What pile of shit they’re gonna hand us next.” Rico finished the thought with a grin, getting to his feet and straightening his dark suit coat. “I don’t know about you, but I could use another couple a days. All work an’ no play makes Rico a dull boy.”

Before Sonny could reply there was a knock on the office door and Mindy O’Laughlin came in. A slender redhead with Irish freckles and a South Boston toughness to match, she was one of the Deputy U.S. Marshals assigned to the Task Force and worked with Trudy Joplin to coordinate intelligence when they weren’t in the field. “I was running through the surveillance logs Lester turned in on that bar we’re watching downtown.”

“He’s been hauling double weight with Stan off on his honeymoon.” Rico turned to Sonny and winked. “Here’s hoping it wasn’t Graceland.”

“No way Angie would let that happen.” Sonny grinned. “Hell, even I don’t know where she sent them.”

“That’s right…I forgot that beast was doin’ the travel planning.” Rico raised his hand. “I know…she’s Caitlin’s friend and all that. But the lady scares the crap right outa me.” He turned back to Mindy. “Sorry about that. Got distracted. What you got for us?”

Mindy smiled. “As I was saying…I was running the logs and got a hit on a name. A flag, actually. An old flag. All the way back to 1974.”

“Some old pot runner?” Sonny chuckled. “Hell, I think we can ignore grandpa now.”

“No, boss. It wasn’t that.” She paused. “It was a Federal fugitive flag. Not narcotics. Terrorism.”

“I didn’t think the Weather Underground made it this far south.”

“If you’d let me finish you’d know.”

“Sorry, Mindy.” Sonny bit back his questions. “Tell us what you got.”

“The flag ran back to a fugitive warrant from 1974 like I said. Terrorism. But not the PLO or any of that stuff. Or the student movements. The guy was connected to Puerto Rican nationalists. The…” She looked down at her notes. “The Comandos Armados de Liberacion.”

“The who?”

“Armed Commandos of Liberation. They combined with another group in ’74 to form the FALN.”

Sonny nodded. “Them I’ve heard of.”

“So have I, partner. I was just outa high school when they blew up the Fraunces Tavern, but I remember that. Raphael had graduated the academy a couple of years before, and ma was scared stiff he’d be next.”

“Did this come off the phone tap?”

Mindy sighed. “If you two would just shut up for ten seconds, I’d tell you.” She stood there for effect, tapping her foot. Once Sonny and Rico looked properly chastised, she smiled. “Thank you. And yes, it was off the phone tap. The bar phone, so someone had to ask for it to make the call. And the bartender had to know them.” She looked back at her pad. “The name that flagged was Ignatio Sanchez. He was the one who got the call, not the one who made it. And before you ask, the call was to another bar…The Full Moon.”

Sonny waited for silence to fill the room. Once he was sure Mindy was done, he raised a finger. “So why do we care about this flag? If it’s a Federal flag, shouldn’t we hand it off to the Feebs or the Marshals?”

Her smile lit up the room, and Sonny knew he’d been played. “That’s the thing, boss. The flag goes back to a young deputy at the time. Deputy Marshal Pete Washington.”

“I’ll make the call.” Nodding, Sonny reached for the phone. “Get me whatever you’ve got from Lester. I’ll bet Pete will have questions.”

 

Chief Deputy Marshal Pete Washington sat behind his desk in the Federal building, doing his best to stay focused on the files in front of him even though it was Friday and after noon. Normally he’d work through lunch and still be around to shake hands with the night custodian, but since his Task Force had wrapped up the heroin case things had been slower than usual.

Thinking of the Task Force, he turned away from the desk and looked out his window without seeing the Miami skyline. Some in the office thought he’d taken a risk by reaching out to Lieutenant Martin Castillo. ‘Just look at how OCB fell apart’ some of them muttered, pointing to the apparent breakdown of one of Castillo’s top detectives and the sudden departure of that officer and another reputed to be a bent NYPD cop only a handful of months later. ‘That unit’s DOA, and Castillo will be lucky to find a job in mall security when it does fold.’

But Pete Washington had learned years ago to trust his gut. He’d done his homework on the silent Cuban, and knew Castillo was exactly who he wanted for his unconventional unit. The man was beyond incorruptible, driven by his own dedication to the law and gifted with a kind of tradecraft most men never knew existed. It had taken time for him to earn the man’s trust, but once he did nothing but success had followed.

Chuckling, Pete got up and walked to the window. He’d had his own share of mistrust, coming from his being a black man in Southern law enforcement. He talked like an old-time Cracker sheriff, and dressed like George Jefferson to throw people off, playing the game to make his way through a system he’d only grudgingly learned to trust. And even then only parts of it. “Marty don’t know how much we have in common, I don’t think,” he muttered as he stopped in front of the window.

Unlike some of the Headquarters boys, Pete had come up the hard way. Doing his time on the civil rights picket lines and marches in the mid-1960s before volunteering for the draft and doing a year in Vietnam. Once the Army was done with him he’d switched to courthouse security and then fugitive details as they became available. He’d gotten the reputation of being a bloodhound…not giving up on a chase until the man was either in cuffs or in the ground.

Lost in his memories, Pete didn’t hear the phone until the third ring. “Chief Deputy Washington….Hey, Sonny….Call me Pete, will ya?’ Pete listened, feeling his heartbeat starting to jump. “Wait…you picked up signs of who? When? No…I’ll come to you. Don’t worry. Ain’t no one gonna see me till I’m there.”

Hanging up the phone, Pete took a series of deep breaths. Well, well. Ol’ Sanchez himself. I figured he’d either gone back to PR or gotten himself killed. Still can’t believe I missed that damned fool all those years ago.

As he navigated the mid-day traffic, Pete let the details play back through his head. Sanchez had been his first fugitive; a person of interest according to the FBI who’d managed to skip out of their custody. Too busy to chase their own mistakes, they’d promptly handed the warrant off to the Marshals, and in turn it had gone to the newest member of the fugitive team. Fresh off court security, and only a handful of years removed from his tour in Vietnam, Pete figured he’d done his best, an assessment the Chief Deputy at the time agreed with. Still, it didn’t sit right. Especially when he considered Sanchez was the only one who’d evaded his grasp in almost twenty years.

It was only the second time Pete had been to the Task Force headquarters, and the first time the office suite had been bare bones…just him and Castillo looking out the big windows in the main office talking about what the Task Force would look like. Hell…it was mostly me talking. Marty just stood there with that no-expression face of his. I think he was even wearing those damned sunglasses. Walking into the outer reception area, he was amazed at the changes.

Mindy started to get up, and he waved her back to her seat. “Don’t get up on my account, deputy. I expect they keep you busy enough.” He nodded to Trudy Joplin. “Good to see you again, detective. Or is it sergeant now? Hell, I can’t keep it all straight. Got Sonny’s call and came on over. He in there?” He nodded toward the closed door.

Trudy nodded. “Head on in, chief. They’re expecting you.”

“Call me Pete, damn it all!” Pete laughed. “Last thing I need’s a swelled head, and I’ll get one of those if you keep callin’ me chief.”

The conference area was dominated by two large maps on the walls: one a street map of Miami and the other of the surrounding county land. Both were covered with circles, notations, and other markings Pete assumed meant something to someone. To him it just looked like a huge bowl of pasta in red sauce had been thrown at the maps and allowed to dry. He nodded to the three men already seated around the big table. “Sonny. Rico. Good to see you both. And you dragged Marty out of his office. Once you said Sanchez I figured it’d be easier if I just came by.”

Martin Castillo nodded a greeting. “Good to see you, Pete. We were conducting routine surveillance and heard the name Ignatio Sanchez on one of the tapes. It came up flagged when Deputy O’Laughlin ran it.”

Sonny cleared his throat. “Flagged with your name, Pete. So I called.”

“And I appreciate the hell out of that, let me tell you.” In short words, Pete repeated the story he’d been rehearsing in his head on the drive over. “I always figured he’d run back to PR. Or gotten his throat cut. Or maybe skipped to Cuba.”

Castillo nodded. “Some of them did. But not this one.” He paused, and Pete remembered the silences Castillo was famous for. “I made a call. Sanchez has been hiding in Costa Rica for the last five years. Before that he was in Panama. My source didn’t know where he was before that.”

“Your guy have any idea what brought him back to Miami? He homesick or something?” And I know damned well this ‘source’ is CIA. Wonder why they were watchin’ ol’ Ignatio?

“No.” Castillo paused. “The phone we are tapping is in a bar in Little Havana.”

Rico drummed his fingers on the table top, drawing a glare from Castillo. “We’re tryin’ to sweep up the last bits of that Holmes arms ring. His last big deals were with the Dominican street gangs, and word on the street is at least two of his boys are trying to set up shop.” Rico grinned. “Of course Holmes was pretty much a sheet-wearin’ Klan poster child, so we aren’t sure it’s any of his people who are doin’ the selling.”

Sonny nodded. “Could be some hangers-on, or someone who ripped off one of Holmes’ shipments and is trying to sell it off now. Anyhow, one of our CIs tipped us to this bar. Said if you want a piece, you can get it there cheap and untraceable. So Lester wired the place for sound, and here we are.”

“The call went to the Full Moon. Little place on the edge of Little Haiti.” Mindy pointed at a spot on the big street map. “We have a tap on the Lame Bull” - she pointed again - “here. As far as we know there’s no link between the bars.”

Pete nodded. Gotta say Castillo’s got a well-oiled team here. This is fast, precise work. “Do you know who made the call?”

“We think so.” Sonny took over again. “Some castoff from Omega-7. The anti-Castro boys. Name’s Ricky Billabo, and I guess he was too anti-Castro even for them. That or he had some tastes they didn’t agree with.”

“Ricky likes his coke pure and his girls young.” Rico looked at the map with a thinly-concealed sneer. “Last we heard the Omega-7 boys had a little contract out on him. He was in the Lame Bull lookin’ for a better piece than the Beretta he favors. He made the call an’ asked for Ignatio Sanchez first thing.”

Pete looked at the map, forcing his mind back years to his original case folder. There was something…something sticking just out of reach. Then he caught hold. “Sanchez used to run guns for the CAL. Strictly military-grade hardware, too. I always figured the little bastard had himself a contact or two in the Puerto Rican National Guard. But back then the FBI had a hard-on for the Mafia and ATF was still chasing ghosts of the Black Panthers. Never went anywhere.”

“Holmes had military suppliers.” Castillo’s voice barely rose above the hum of the HVAC system. “Maybe there’s a connection.”

“More likely at a lower level. Holmes didn’t much care for anyone who wasn’t white, so I doubt he’d meet with this bozo face to face. Even if he was selling rocket launchers.” Sonny turned back to Pete. “We got you here ‘cause he’s your collar, Pete. Figured you’d want to be in on the bust.”

“You figured right. I checked…the warrant’s still active and valid.” Pete looked at the people around the table. “Still…I waited this long another day or two ain’t gonna hurt a thing. We can either bring him in now or wait an’ see what sort of deviltry he’s gettin’ himself up to.” He turned to Mindy and Trudy. “I expect you two lovely ladies have more on them bars?”

Trudy smiled. “We do. Full Moon’s always been a spot favored by Puerto Ricans and some of the more radical Cuban expats. Opened in the mid-60s and hasn’t changed a bit since its first day. Metro-Dade tracks it for some small-time drug buys, mostly pot and a little bit of speed. Seems they like to keep a low profile.” She stopped and nodded to Mindy.

“The Lame Bull’s newer. The guy who opened it claimed to have been a bullfighter or some crap, but DEA thinks he’s the point man for some new Mexican group. Funny thing is no drugs ever seem to move through the place. The guns are a new angle. ATF isn’t interested, and Metro-Dade has only tracked a couple of pistols going through the place. But the word’s been out for a few months.”

“Metro-Dade couldn’t find its ass with both hands, a searchlight, and a satellite photograph.” Pete looked around the table again. “My folks have heard the same rumors about the place an’ guns, and we know at least a few felons have managed to arm themselves there. We passed it on to ATF, but I expect they’re still trainin’ folks an’ generally trying to rebuild after that Holmes disaster.”

“We let Sanchez run for a couple of days.” There was a final note in Castillo’s voice. “He said on the tape he’d need a day to get the package together.”

“Get us a warrant and Lester can have the Full Moon wired for sound before the ink on the warrant’s dry.” Sonny learned forward. “If we get eyes on him, Dave and Randy can bird-dog this Sanchez no matter where he goes. Maybe get a tracker on his car if he has one. He’s not getting away this time, Pete.”

“I’ll call the AUSA. If this dive has ties to the FALN, it shouldn’t take more than a whisper in his ear to get the paper.” Pete could feel the heat of the chase rising in his chest…something he hadn’t felt for some time now. “An’ if it looks like FALN might be sittin’ down with Omega-7, so much the better.”

“Just don’t let the Feebs catch wind.” Rico tugged at the lapels of his Armani suit coat. “Last thing we need is a bunch of chumps in tan Fords drivin’ around the place scarin’ the natives.”

“It’s our warrant. Not theirs. They start sniffin’ around you can bet I’ll be on the horn to DC first thing.” Pete got to his feet. “Last thing they want is a public fight with the Marshal’s Service. But this also don’t look like it would draw enough headlines to get them interested.”

“And we plan to keep it that way.” Castillo looked around the room, the flat tone of his voice ending the briefing. “Let’s get to work. I want Franz ready to go as soon as that warrant comes in. Crockett, you’ll brief Mather and Blair on their roles.”

Pete was on his way back to his office when it really hit him. Ignatio Sanchez. The fuckin’ one who got away. And I get a second shot at the bastard. Thanks to the Task Force the district said was a waste of time and resources. Without thinking he slapped the steering wheel with his right hand. Hard. “Doesn’t look like a waste of time now, does it?” he asked the empty car. “An’ they’ll get their warrant right enough. A whole bucket of ‘em. They’ve given the AUSA so many damned cases he doesn’t know what to do with ‘em all. Least he can do is break loose a warrant or two.”

The hard part was going to be staying out of their way. He could feel the drive now…kicking back up in his chest with the hot flame it had back when he was running and gunning in the field. What had they called me back then? Oh, yeah…Pistol Pete. Pete grinned at the memory of his nickname, earned both for his marksmanship and hair-trigger temper. Both had mellowed over the years, but he still felt the temper from time to time.

Even after all this time he wasn’t sure how Sanchez had given him the slip. They’d been so close to him…right down to knowing his hotel room and what café he went to for morning coffee. He’d been there one minute and gone the next. Vanished into thin air. Back then he’d been convinced someone had tipped the Puerto Rican terrorist off, and nothing he’d learned since had changed his view. It had only been the Marshal’s Service and Metro-Dade working the case, so the leak had to have come from one of those places. He grinned as he turned into his parking space and shut off the car. At least he didn’t have to worry about leaks now.

Back in his office, he made two quick calls to the AUSA’s office, then fidgeted at his desk until confirmation of the warrants came though. Snatching up the phone, he hit a number on speed dial and didn’t even give Mindy a chance to say hello. “Warrant should be comin’ through on the fax now,” he said, fighting to contain his excitement. “Tell Castillo to do his thing.” As he hung up, Pete realized he was grinning like a fool.

 

Sonny Crockett watched as the paper inched out of the fax machine. “Still hate that damned thing,” he muttered. “Even when it’s bringing good news.”

“Look on the bright side, partner. At least you didn’t have to talk to the AUSA.”

“Now ain’t that the damend truth. They ain’t so bad now that Carstairs got reassigned, though.” The machine gave a final beep and was still. “Guess that’s it. As soon as Castillo reviews it we’ll turn Lester loose.”

Rico nodded. “Yeah. Gotta say I ain’t ever seen Pete that worked up. It’s just one chump who got away. God knows we’ve had those.”

“Yeah. Feels like it’s a question of pride with him, though.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Mindy stood in the doorway to the outer office, her light red hair haloed by the conference room fluorescents. “One of my partners back in the Boston office worked with Pete in the ‘70s. When he found out I was being shipped here he gave me the low-down. You know Pete’s nickname used to be Pistol Pete? Except for Sanchez he had a perfect apprehension record. People didn’t want to work with him because when he was on a case that’s all he did.” She smiled. “I’m surprised his wife stuck with him.”

Rico slapped Sonny on the shoulder. “Sounds like another cop I know.”

“Yeah, yeah. Says the man who impersonated his own brother.” Sonny chuckled and knocked on Castillo’s door. “Good to know, though, Mindy. Means he might get jumpy when we get close to this Sanchez.” He paused a heartbeat. “We got the warrants, captain.”

One word echoed from the office. “Go.”

Sonny grinned. “You heard the man, Tubbs. Get Lester started. I’ll see if our resident shooters are hiding in the back huffing Hoppe’s Number 9 and have them start putting together a surveillance plan. And you an’ me better start figuring out what two friendly drug runners might be doing in places like the Lame Bull and Full Moon.”

By the next morning it was all in place. Sonny sat at the conference room table nursing a cup of coffee and missing Stan Switek like he did every morning when they had to drink someone else’s coffee. It still amazed him how quickly the Task Force could work once it had a target. Even with pieces missing.

Rico, impeccably dressed as always, cut loose with a jaw-popping yawn. “Man, I need to get to bed earlier.”

“You must be seeing the wrong ladies, Tubbs.”

“I keep tellin’ you to find me Jenny’s long-lost sister, partner.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sonny smiled to cover his thoughts. Jenny had taken Vellamo out for a short cruise, and he was missing her more than he’d thought he would. “Or maybe you should just call Mindy.”

“Maybe that’s why I didn’t get to bed earlier.” Rico grinned.

“Yeah…you were up on that rooftop thing of yours dreamin’ about her.” Sonny took another sip of coffee and winced. “Man, I can’t wait until Stan gets back.”

“No doubt.” Rico sat down and stared into his own coffee cup. “Any idea how we’re gonna break the Lame Bull?”

“I have no damned idea, partner. But we might not need to. Sanchez was at the Full Moon, right? I say we start there once we have a better picture of the place.” He paused. “Thing is, they got no drug connections. Burnett sure as hell doesn’t need guns, and I can’t see either Cooper or Prentiss going into the weapons trade, either. If Stan was here we could send him in as his biker, but that’s out, too. We might have to do this one long distance until we get a bead on Sanchez.”

“Gotta say I don’t like it.”

“Neither do I, Rico.” Sonny scratched at the stubble on his chin, trying to sort through his thoughts. He hated going into a situation blind, but he couldn’t see any way around it. “But a macho creep like Sanchez isn’t gonna buy female gun buyers, and we need Dave and Randy on the outside.”

“What about Castillo?”

“Not with the Omega-7 crowd around. Some of those bozos might recognize him. Hell, any of us for that matter. Wasn’t that long back we went after them in OCB. And those Cubans have long memories.” He choked down another mouthful of coffee. “Last time I try making coffee. No, I think we’re stuck watching and waiting.”

“Crockett’s right.” Once again Castillo seemed to appear from nowhere, standing just inside the door in his trademark black suit, white shirt, and narrow tie. “There are no good ways in. At least not yet. And these people are always watching. Paranoid.”

Rico nodded. “So we wait for them to show us the way in?”

“Yes. And if there isn’t one, we find Sanchez and take him that way.”

“Yeah. With Pete’s warrant we don’t have to dance with ‘em if we don’t want to.” Crockett turned to Castillo. “But I’m curious, too, Marty. Why did this Billabo reach out to Sanchez if he just needed a piece?”

“Find out. Work that while Franz is getting ears on Full Moon.”

“You got it, captain.” Sonny drained his cup, winced again, and turned back to Rico. “Come on, partner. Maybe Mindy and Trudy managed to dig up some more dirt on our two compadres.”

Mindy O’Laughlin shook her head, her thick red hair bobbing with the motion. “Nothing new on Sanchez, guys. He’s a big a ghost as he was before. I am pulling up the old stuff just in case he decides to revisit his youth.”

Trudy looked up from her monitor. “Got a bit on Ricky. Nothing you’re gonna like, though.”

Sonny nodded his thanks to Mindy, hiding a grin as he saw Rico staring a bit too hard at the deputy. “What ya got, Trudy?”

“Omega-7 may have some little contract out on him, but it’s not slowing Ricky’s roll one bit. He’s been making the rounds of the younger Cuban expats, making noise about starting his own ‘combat group.’ At least that’s what Metro-Dade’s anti-terror section is claiming.”

“When did they get one of those?”

“As near as I can tell they’ve been hiding it in a closet for years, Sonny. No one pays them much attention, so we never heard of it in OCB. But they file pretty decent stuff, at least on the Cubans. They must have a source or something. Nothing on Puerto Ricans, though.”

“So what did they say about this group?”

“Gossip mainly. But that might explain why Ricky was looking for bigger guns.”

“Or maybe more guns.” Rico finally pulled his attention from Mindy’s freckles. “The chumps at the Lame Bull don’t do volume. Strictly cash an’ carry.”

Sonny nodded. “Thanks, ladies. Rico, let’s go shake a couple of trees of our own and see what falls out. I got a funny feeling about all this.”

 

Sitting at his desk with his third cup of coffee, Pete Washington had to force himself to avoid looking at the phone. He knew if he saw it, he’d snatch it up and put in a call to the Task Force wanting to know what they had on Sanchez. Even though he knew the answer would be the same as yesterday. “If they have anything, they’ll call,” he muttered as he tried to focus on the contents of the open folder on his desk.

After ten minutes of staring at the same page he got up with a snort and walked to the windows. Looking out at the sun-kissed buildings, he shook his head. I don’t need to hold Castillo’s hand. No way, no how. If his people are on it, Sanchez is as good as in a holding cell right now. You know that, damn it! Still, he couldn’t turn off the thoughts in his head. At least there wouldn’t be a leak this time around.

Turning, he went back to his desk. The leak. That would give him something to occupy his churning brain while Castillo’s people did their thing. There were two questions to answer: had there been a leak; and if so who did the leaking? At the time they’d thought Sanchez was little more than a foot solider, but Castillo’s call to the CIA changed Pete’s mind on that score. No way the Company wasted resources to track a two-bit gunman. And if Sanchez had been someone in the CAL, it stood to reason he’d have access to resources. And maybe sources as well.

He knew he’d have to be careful. Running around with his hair on fire asking questions would just alert a leak…if there was one. And if there wasn’t he’d look like a damned fool from the FBI hunting Commies. No, he’d do this quietly. And on his own. Getting up again, he headed across the room to his personal filing cabinet and unlocked the drawer continuing all ‘P’ files. The best place to start was at the beginning…with the Puerto Rican terror groups.

They were all unified now…or as unified as groups like that could be. The name had changed at least once - he knew that - but the goal hadn’t. And he doubted the methods had, either. For what they wanted, there was the political way and the hard way. Ignatio Sanchez had always been part of the hard way.

But why come back now? The question kept coming up as he read through the pages. What was so special about now, and what did he have that would draw a Cuban radical out of the woodwork? About the only thing they shared was a common enemy in the U.S. Government: the Cubans because they wouldn’t help overthrow Castro and the Puerto Ricans because independence wasn’t immediately granted. But that was all. Hell, I think at least one of those Puerto Rican groups was Communist or at least had leanings.

It didn’t make sense…at least not know. But Pete knew if he chewed on it long enough things would start falling into place. Especially with Castillo and his people working from the other end. As he turned more pages, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than just an old warrant coming back into play.

As he read through the old files, Pete found himself looking for common threads. People who’d worked the same cases. Any overlap that would help him narrow down the leak. Or at least exclude people from suspicion. Years had passed, and there was a good chance whoever it was had either moved on or retired. They might even be dead by now. But that dogged corner of his mind wanted to know…had to know. And maybe, just maybe, he’d get lucky and be able to kill two old birds with one stone.

 

“At least he’s not Izzy.” Ricardo Tubbs looked over the top of his sunglasses at the deeply tanned man lounging in a reclining chair by the hotel pool.

“No. But he’s just as greasy.” Sonny kept his sunglasses in place, both to protect against the glare and to keep his Burnett persona intact. Sonny Burnett never took the shades off when there was business to be done. “I’ve only put the touch on this bozo a couple of times, so he’s still squirrelly.”

“He’s not gonna run, is he? Last thing I want is to tear these pants.”

“Don’t worry about it, partner. He tries running in those flip-flops he’ll either break his damned leg or knock out a couple of those polished teeth.” Sonny gave Rico a narrow grin before locking his Burnett stare into place. “Let’s go say hello.”

Esteban didn’t look up until their shadows played dark across his shaved chest. And even then he didn’t really open his eyes. “Hey. You’re blockin’ the rays. Wanna shift?”

“You wanna think about that again, pal?” Sonny’s voice was flat and empty.

Esteban’s eyes flew open, and he sat up so fast he almost fell out of the chair. “Oh, hey Sonny! I mean Mr. Burnett. Didn’t know it was you.”

“No shit. You forget how to answer a page?”

“No…I mean…I didn’t know you…”

“Forget it. My friend here’s interested in some goods that are a bit out of my line. My normal guy’s busy, so I had to settle for you.” Sonny paused, staring down at a now frantic Esteban through his Ray-Bans. “See you don’t disappoint.”

“No, man…I mean Mr. Burnett. No way I’m gonna do that. Anything your friend needs, I can get.” He looked around the pool area. “But maybe…”

“First smart thing you’ve said today.” Sonny let his lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. “The bar should be quiet this time of day.”

It was cooler inside, the heat and humidity leached away by an efficient air conditioning system. Esteban had pulled on a heavy white robe, but Sonny could see his shoulders shaking as he sucked down a beer. “Man, I needed that. Gets hot out in that damned sun. Anyhow, Mr. Burnett, you wanna introduce me to your friend?”

“No. Not until he decides if you can help at all.” Sonny turned to Rico. “Sorry about this. My usual guy’s…”

“I see.” Rico fell into a clipped African accent that could have come from any of six different countries. “Still…even a poor tool is often better than none at all. Provided he is fit for the task.”

“I don’t…”

“I am sure of that. But my friend here says you can provide access to certain…goods. My people require very specific things.” Rico looked around and lowered his voice. “Starting with automatic rifles.”

“Yeah…I can get some of those. What do you need? AR-15s? Mini-14s?”

“I see I was not clear enough. My people need assault rifles. M-16s. Perhaps FN-FALs if they are in stock.” He paused, then chuckled. “But not AK-47s. We can take those if we need them, but my people prefer quality.”

“Oh.” Esteban’s face fell. “I gotta be straight with you. That kind of stuff I can only get in ones and twos. Not the quantity I bet your…people…need.” He raised his hand. “But I might know a dude who can. Maybe not those FN thingies, but I know he can score M-16s.” He paused. “Thing is, you might have to outbid someone.”

Sonny leaned in. “You don’t have to outbid a dead man.”

“Hey, Mr. Burnett! I’m just sayin’ what I heard. Me? I ain’t got nothin’ against Castro or whatever, but lots of my fellow Cubanos do. And one of ‘em is trying to set up another of those damned combat groups they like so much. You know…crawlin’ around in the swamp with no ladies to keep ‘em company. Not my idea of a good time, but hey. Anyhow, he’s wantin’ those guns like yesterday.” Esteban drained his beer. “Look. Let me make a call. See what’s up.”

Sonny looked over Esteban’s head at Rico, who nodded. “If you’re not back here in five minutes I’ll come lookin’, Esteban. And you do not want that.”

As soon as the oiled punk left, Rico turned to Sonny and shook his head. “That’s the best we got?”

“I think so, partner. Hell, weapons ain’t our thing. Never has been. I ran across ol’ Esteban when I was doing some ground work before we went after Holmes. He’s strictly amateur hour, but he does know people.”

“Glad to hear it. Just make sure he doesn’t drip on my threads. Now I just gotta slip back into African revolutionary mode an’ I’m good.” Rico smiled. “Good move kickin’ that one out there, partner. No way Cooper would be lookin’ for guns, and this isn’t exactly Teddy’s scene. If you catch my drift, mon.”

“Don’t look now, but he’s back.” Sonny set his face in a hard line before turning back to Esteban. “You’d better have the right news, pal.”

Esteban raised his hands. “Look, I made the call. I was right about there bein’ another buyer, but my friend puts profits over politics. If you know what I mean.”

“What exactly do you mean?” Rico leaned in. “Please, make it plain. I did not come all this way to play games.”

“No, I bet you didn’t.” Esteban smiled, but Sonny could see his hands shaking. “Anyhow, what I mean is my friend will consider a higher offer. Thing is, he’s got some supply problems, too. His usual guy is out of commission. As in permanently. So he’s dealing with a new guy who’s not as easy to work with.”

“Sounds like someone else’s problem.” Sonny fixed Esteban with another stare. “As in not my problem. Or my friend’s problem. But it’s your lucky day. It likely ain’t your problem, either.”

Esteban’s sigh was almost a physical thing. “Glad to hear you say that, Mr. Burnett. Like I said, this ain’t the kind of merchandise I usually deal with. And the market’s been a mess of late.”

“You mean since the feds shot the shit out of Holmes and his rednecks.” Sonny chuckled. “I heard about that even in my line of work. But here’s the thing, Esteban. My friend here has things he needs. And there’s a commission for people who help him with those needs.”

“Put me in contact with your source.” Rico lowered his sunglasses just a hair. “I will see you get ten percent of the total purchase price. It is not, how do you say, chump change.”

“I…”

“Say I require one hundred rifles. At a thousand dollars each, that puts ten thousand in your pocket.”

“Look. He don’t like new faces. But I’ll do my best.” He turned to Sonny. “I can page you, Mr. Burnett. Let you know when the meet’s set.”

“I pick the place. Be sure your pal knows that.” Sonny curled his lip in what might have been a smile or a snarl. “The time’s all him, but I won’t walk into someone else’s trap. Not after Holmes.”

“Damn. I heard rumors you almost got caught up in that.” Esteban shook his head. “He’ll understand once I explain it to him.” He turned back to Rico. “I’ll take care of it for you, sir. Don’t worry about a thing.”

It was hot outside, but at least they weren’t breathing Esteban’s sun tan oil. Sonny held his Burnett look until they were in the Ferrari before letting out a long sigh and pulling into traffic. “He’ll do his bit. Both for the ten grand and to impress Burnett. Little bozo’s been tryin’ to worm his way in for months.”

“You think he can swing it?”

“Honestly, Rico? I don’t know. I know the little bastard will try, at least. And we don’t have any other options. Not if we want to get a line on this Sanchez. If he’s moving guns. And if he is the one Esteban’s dealing with, we have about day to get in the way.”

“What about my competition?”

“What competition?” Sonny smiled and downshifted to get around a city bus. “Hell, if we have to we’ll just have Metro-Dade arrest Billabo for some charge or another. Jaywalking. Double-parking. Get him off the street for a couple of days. That should clear the field well enough. Or drop a hint to the FBI they have an honest-to-God domestic terrorist on the loose.”

“No, man. Not the Feebs. They’d flood the entire coast with tan Fords and Sears discount suits. My delicate sensibilities couldn’t take it.”

“You’re right. Still, it’s easy to get him out of play for a couple of days. And that should be all we need.”

 

Back in the office, Mindy O’Laughlin took a final look at last night’s surveillance log before closing the notebook and putting it on one of the shelves lining the lower part of the conference room’s walls. It had taken a good part of the night, but Lester Franz had the taps up and running in the Full Moon. And Dave and Randy had picked their observation points and were building a physical profile of the area around the bar. It was all standard Task Force operating procedure, but it still amazed her with its thoroughness.

Turning, she headed back to her work station in the outer lobby. Having to pose as the receptionist stung at first, until she realized the advantages. She and Trudy could process intel for the Task Force without interruption, insulated from the conference room and the rest of the office by the connecting door. She’d also appreciated Castillo taking the time to explain the purpose behind it. “No organization in this building doesn’t have at least one person in reception,” he’d said in that low voice of his. “We must appear normal. And I need someone out there who can handle any situation.”

Unlocking her computer, Mindy typed in a key phrase and started scrolling through search results. Trudy was doing the same at her own computer, and the clicking keys and the low hum of the HVAC were the only sounds in the outer office. Words started scrolling, pulled out of a variety of law enforcement databases by her query, but she didn’t really see them. Mindy’s thoughts were elsewhere…on what had brought her to this very office.

Law enforcement ran in the family blood. How often had she heard her father say that? But following the laws they were sworn to enforce was optional…at least when it came to not drinking too much or smacking hell out of your wife and kids. She’d left the house in Boston as soon as she could, running first to college and a handful of semesters before joining the Marshal’s Service because it was one of the few agencies the O’Laughlin clan didn’t have ties to.

Of course they sent her right back to Boston. To an office with a chief deputy with wandering hands and bad intentions. She’d fended him off and stuck it out long enough to clear probation and break a case or two before requesting reassignment to anywhere. Anywhere turned out to be Miami, where she’d been stuck behind a desk by yet another supervisor who thought she made a better office decoration than a field deputy. And then Pete Washington came to town.

Mindy never found out how he’d spotted her, but he’d moved her into court security duty shortly after assuming command of the office. Then it had been a few investigations and some joint work before the fateful meeting in his office late one afternoon when he’d asked her if she’d like to do something different.

At first she’d been reluctant. Court security wasn’t a bad detail, and the joint duties left her with a bad taste for both Metro-Dade and the local FBI field office. But Pete could be convincing when he set his mind to it. “This is different,” he’d said, grinning from behind his big desk. “Special. The unit reports to me an’ only me. And its commander will be Martin Castillo.”

She’d heard the name Castillo. He was a legend in Miami law enforcement circles, either admired or despised by most cops she’d encountered. And the ones who hated him convinced her Castillo must be one of the really good guys.

“See you know the name.” He’d grinned again. “Lot you can learn from that one. Do you good later on.” Looking back, Mindy knew she really hadn’t had a choice. But it was so like Pete to make you think you did.

She snapped back to the room when her computer binged to announce the end of the search. Reaching for the mouse, she started scrolling through the results, pausing from time to time as something caught her eye. Looking for links the machine missed because it hadn’t been told to look for them. It was one of the things she really liked about gathering intel for the Task Force…watching the picture fill itself in as she worked. That and Rico.

She could almost hear her father shouting about it…her not sticking to her ‘own,’ which to him meant Irish in general and more particularly his old partner’s son who was a worthless drunk. They hadn’t even gone out on a date yet, but she saw the way he looked at her, and she knew how she looked at him. How she felt when they talked about jazz or even work.

“You finding anything good over there?”

Mindy managed to keep from jumping in her chair. “No. But I haven’t gone through all the search results yet. What about you?”

Trudy shook her head. “Not really. A few arrests for our pal Ricky, but it’s all little stuff. Drunk and disorderly. I think the biggest one’s an assault charge that was dropped because no witnesses would come forward.”

Mindy scanned her screen, pushing all thoughts of Ricardo Tubbs to the far back of her mind. “I’ve got something over here. That assault charge looks to be what got him tossed from Omega-7. According to the FBI, the guy he assaulted was one of their group leaders. It’s wiretap info, and not a very good tap from the looks of it, but that would explain why no one would come forward and why he’s on his own.”

“It also explains why he’s trying to start his own commando.” Trudy leaned back in her chair, and Mindy heard her sigh. “Growing up in Overtown I saw a lot of those boys. They like to run in packs.”

“And he’s had some success. According to that same tap he claims to have five members in what he’s calling the Liberty League.”

Trudy snorted. “Sounds like a bad Saturday morning cartoon if you ask me.”

“Maybe. But he’s been looking for guns for at least two weeks. FBI’s got it here.”

“And they’re doing what?”

“They have the group under expert surveillance.” Mindy looked over at Trudy and winked. “You know…until the right moment comes to pounce on them.” She scrolled down some more. “But they either ran out of tape or Ricky found their bugs. The surveillance ends about a week ago.”

“Maybe they forgot to pay their phone bill.” Trudy giggled. “Let me see if there’s any mention of Sanchez in my stuff. I’ve got some ATF records.”

Nodding, Mindy turned back to her own screen. Somewhere buried in the mass of electronic information she knew there was something on Sanchez. There had to be. He’d been a big man back when Pete Washington got that warrant, and big men left trails. Even if they were small ones. After all, someone at the Lame Bull had known Sanchez was in town and referred Ricky to him. It was just a question of digging deep enough to find out who, and then how they’d known.

 

The sun was starting to sink below the horizon when Martin Castillo called the Task Force together. He sat at the head of the conference table, letting them settle in and banter a bit before looking up. As soon as he did the room went quiet. “Report.”

Sonny spoke up. “Rico and I have feelers out to a kid named Esteban. He’s low level, but he’s the only player in the gun game I have access to. Rico’s posing as an African buyer and he’ll page us once he contacts his supplier.”

“Billabo?”

“He didn’t use a name. But if it’s not him, it’s someone right below him.” Sonny shrugged. “It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got.”

Nodding, Castillo turned to Trudy and Mindy, feeling a pang when Trudy smiled at him. Soon, my love. I won’t draw this out any longer than it needs to be. “Anything?”

Mindy nodded, and Castillo saw Rico watching the move of her hair and the way her blouse shifted when she moved. “We got the background on Billabo’s split from Omega-7. He calls his new operation the Liberty League. Seems our friends at the FBI knew all this but didn’t pass any intel on to anyone else. They also lost their tap on him about a week ago. No indication how or why.”

Trudy looked at her own pad. “ATF doesn’t have much, either. Just rumors of someone new selling automatic weapons. Of course, their field office is mostly shot to hell.”

Mindy cleared her throat. “I’m going to go through the intel again, captain. I might have missed something. I don’t see how a player like Sanchez could have slipped in without making any waves. I also want to find out who sent Billabo to him in the first place.”

Castillo nodded his thanks. Then he turned to the other end of the table. “Sergeant Franz?”

Lester looked tired, his thin face even more drawn than usual. “We have ears on both bars now. The afternoon was slow, but maybe by tomorrow I’ll have some information to help Mindy track down the connection there.”

The two snipers, Dave Blair and Randy Mather, looked at the map before speaking. “We’ve got OPs set up in both locations,” Randy said, speaking as usual for both of them. “Good locations and target boxes. We can keep eyes on anyone moving in or out of the bars.” He paused. “We can also spell Lester on the electronic surveillance if needed. Both Dave an’ I worked this stuff for the Marshals now and again.”

Lester’s face brightened. “Thanks, guys. Between this and the two ongoing ops I’m running out of hands.”

“That’s on me.” Castillo looked at his team. “We’re short-handed. I didn’t make allowances for that. Sergeant Franz, you can turn off the tap for Sierra 22 for now. The same for Hotel 11. Both those locations have been dry holes, and I need your efforts focused on the Sanchez situation.”

“Roger that, captain. I’ll shut ‘em down as soon as we’re done. That will make things much easier.” The electronics wizard turned to the two snipers. “How ‘bout we meet later and work something out? Maybe you run the taps on whatever bar you’re overwatching and I’ll run the other?”

“Do whatever makes the most sense.” Castillo looked down at his hands. He was impressed at how quickly the Task Force had pivoted to pick up Pete’s old case, but they also needed time to breathe. The operation to take down Doc’s heroin operation had required maximum effort, and they hadn’t really been able to recover. “We take this slowly and carefully. If you need to breathe, breathe. When we move too fast, we start making mistakes. Ignatio Sanchez is a professional. He’ll sense those mistakes.”

Back in his office, Castillo reached for his phone and punched in a number. “This is Castillo. We’re starting the operation.”

Pete’s voice echoed down the line. “Anything you need, come right to me. I got a feelin’.”

“So do I. Do you think it came from the Marshal’s Service?”

There was a long sigh. “I don’t think so, but I can’t say for certain, Marty. Not yet, anyhow. An’ it’s got me right pissed off. There ain’t much in the file the FBI handed off, but that was also 1974. Ain’t sure most of ‘em knew how to type.”

“Yes. They were also focused on the Mafia back then. Labor unions, too.”

“Yeah. They didn’t give two shits about the PRs until stuff started blowin’ up.” Another sigh filled Castillo’s ear. “Look, I’ll call you in the mornin’. There’s somethin’ in this set of files that’s botherin’ me. Might go back to the Cubans, too.”

After hanging up, Castillo turned to look out the window at the gathering night. He wanted to leave. To head back to his beachside house with Trudy and listen to the waves and her jazz piano. He seemed to do his best thinking then…when he was straddling two worlds; the present of Miami and the past of Laos. But not quite yet. Something Pete said was sticking in the back of his mind. Cuba. There has to some connection. Why else would the Company have been protecting Sanchez?

Reaching out, he picked up the phone and dialed one of their internal numbers. “Trudy, would you bring me the Omega-7 files, please? Thank you.” He promised himself they’d leave after he checked, but there was something he needed to know first.

 

Sonny Crockett looked down at his plate of scrambled eggs and bacon and shook his head. The Sunshine Diner did a mean cup of coffee, but the rest of the menu reminded him of mess hall food. Some days that was a good thing, but others - like today - it wasn’t.

“You shoulda stuck to toast, partner.” Rico took a healthy bite out of a slice of toasted wheat bread. “Even they can’t screw that up.”

“Don’t be too sure, Rico. I’ve seen asphalt shingles that look more edible than some of the toast that’s come out of that chamber of horrors.” He jerked his head in the general direction of the kitchen. “If their coffee wasn’t so damned good…”

“Jenny must still be sailin’ the deep blue sea.”

“You got that right. And before you ask, I ain’t heard from Esteban yet. That pager don’t buzz by noon, we’re headin’ back to that hotel to rattle the little twerp’s cage.”

Rico nodded slowly. “Yeah, but we don’t want to come on too strong. Scare the little chump off, or maybe his contact. And if it’s Sanchez…”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. But we got a reputation to maintain, too.” Sonny took a last drink of coffee and chewed a rubbery piece of bacon before giving it up as a lost cause. “Let’s blow this pop stand.”

Sonny nodded to Randy Mather as he passed through the conference room. The former Marine Scout-Sniper flashed a quick grin. “I sent Lester home to get some sleep. Just finishin’ the logs now. It was a damned quiet night.”

“Glad to hear it.” Sonny was about to say more when something buzzed in his pocket. “And that must be Esteban. Come on, Rico. We got a call to make.”

One of Stan’s biggest coups was the creation of the phone system. He and Lester had set it up so a call could be routed to look like it came from any number of locations…from the airport to a pay phone outside a strip club. There were also backing sound tracks to match each location. Sonny looked at the flashing digital numbers on the pager’s small screen. “Where should we call from?”

“The airport.” Rico grinned. “Let’s make the chump think I’m considerin’ leaving town.”

“And taking that ten grand with you.” Sonny grinned and hit a series of buttons on the outside line. “Make it fast, pal.”

Esteban sounded scared, though not as scared as he’d been at the hotel bar the day before. “You at the airport, Mr. Burnett?”

“What’s it sound like? Disney World?”

“No…I mean…your friend isn’t leaving, is he?”

Sonny shot Rico a quick grin. “He’s considering options.”

“Look…I got in touch with that guy. There is another bidder, but he’s willing to consider another offer. He wants to meet this afternoon. At three.”

“The Overton. You know the place?”

“Sure, Mr. Burnett. We’ll be there at three.”

“Don’t be late.” Sonny slammed the phone down, then chuckled. “We got him hooked, Rico. Not sure how hard, but he’s definitely hooked. Three this afternoon.” He got to his feet. “You get the teams ready and I’ll brief Castillo. I want to go in light with this one. You, me, and maybe Mindy.” He grinned. “I’d take Trudy, but I think Peaches would scare ol’ Esteban to death.”

He found Castillo at his desk flipping through three thick files. “Marty, we just heard from Esteban. The meet’s a go for this afternoon. Rico’s setting up the coverage now. We’re gonna go in light so we don’t scare whoever his supplier is.”

Castillo nodded. But he didn’t look up from the papers in front of him. “Chief Deputy Washington might have stumbled into something serious back in 1974.”

Recognizing the tone, Sonny hooked a chair and sat down. “Like what?”

“I was still in Southeast Asia.” Castillo finally looked up. “But I had…colleagues…who moved in those circles. This Sanchez might have been affiliated with the CAL, but he did business with more radical Cubans. I recognize the names. People who were part of the Bay of Pigs and never gave up on deposing Castro. Or punishing the United States for failing to support the plan.”

“We tangled with some of those loons back in OCB. Younger versions, but crazy.”

“Yes. But the men Sanchez worked with made them look like children.” Castillo turned his chair toward the window. “It helps explain how he got out of the country so quickly.”

“The Company?”

“Or part of it. Most of the leadership attention was focused on South Vietnam, Laos, and Thailand at that time. I understand the Central American section had…a great deal of freedom of action.”

“Meaning they could do whatever the hell they wanted so long as it looked anti-Commie.”

“Yes.” The single word hung in the air. “At least one of the men Sanchez worked with was an Agency asset. But the Agency wouldn’t have known about a warrant. Not without help.”

“You thinking what I’m thinking? Hoover’s commandos.”

“The FBI did originate the warrant. And if Sanchez could claim he was working against Castro…” Castillo turned. “See to the operation. We need to locate Sanchez and help the chief deputy take him off the streets. I’ll continue looking through this.”

“Oh, we might need to reach out to Metro-Dade. If this thing looks like it might go south, we want to pull the other buyer, Billabo, off the streets for a couple of days.”

“Let me know and I’ll make the call.”

“You got it.” Sonny got to his feet and headed back to the main room, glad to leave Castillo alone with his ghosts. Something in those files is getting to him. I think we better get this punk off the streets and fast. “We got the green light. Let’s get this party started, girls.”

 

Mid-afternoon in the Overton’s parking lot was an exercise in trying not to sweat through your clothes as you walked from your car to the club. Adjusting his sunglasses, Sonny looked at the pink and blue neon sign and tried to focus. The place held memories for him…mostly bad ones.

Rico clapped a hand on his shoulder. “We got this, partner. Let’s get inside before some chump decides to fry an egg on my face.”

Inside the club was splashed with the same pink and blue neon, bouncing off the glass and stainless steel bar and painting the faces of the bored waitresses on duty. Too early for the evening rush and too late for the long lunch crowd, the Overton felt like it was gathering its breath. It was one of the few times Sonny could stand the place.

“Guess we’re a little early.” Rico looked around before sauntering to the bar. “Maybe we should’ve brought Mindy.”

“I got a feeling this guy of Esteban’s is gonna be jumpy, even if it’s not Sanchez.” Sonny followed in Rico’s wake. “Don’t wanna spook him with an extra body. Even Mindy’s body.”

“You sure know how to ruin a guy’s afternoon, partner.”

“Then just ask her out already. It doesn’t count as a date if you’re both under cover, you know.”

The bartender stood up straight as soon as he spotted Sonny. “Afternoon, Mr. Burnett. Get you and your friend anything?”

“Coors for me. And whatever my associate wants. We’re gonna be taking a meeting.”

“Cabrent.” Rico waited until the bartender turned away. “Gotta shake up the image a bit.”

Nodding, Sonny checked his watch and turned to watch the door. Almost time. And I don’t think Esteban will be late if he can help it. I just hope the team got into position. They’d both avoided comms for the meeting aside from the pager panic button if things went wrong. It was a risk, but Sonny figured if it was Sanchez on the other end of the deal he’d be paranoid and smart enough to sweep for devices. Randy and Dave hadn’t been happy about it, but one look from Castillo silenced all complaints.

“Showtime. Esteban just came in, and he’s got company.”

Rico nodded but didn’t turn around. “Is it our guy?”

“Could be. Older and Latin is all I can tell.” Sonny took a deep drink of his beer and set the glass down. “Wasn’t sure you were going to show, Esteban.”

“I gave my word, Mr. Burnett. I can’t expect you to respect me if I can’t keep my word.” Esteban flashed what he thought was a winning smile. “This is the man I was telling you about.”

The older man’s face could have been chiseled from light brown stone. Gray touched his temples, and his face was clean-shaven. “My associate here tells me you are in need of some specific merchandise.”

Now Rico turned. “I am the one with merchandise needs. Mr. Burnett is assisting me with my inquiries and will see to shipping.” He set his empty wine glass on the bar. “I suggest we find someplace more quiet to talk.”

The older man shook his head. “Down the bar is fine.”

Sonny nodded. “Can’t say’s I blame you. Going to a dark corner in a place like this doesn’t sit right with me, either. I know that game, too. Like the man said, I’m here for introductions and shipping arrangements. And security if it’s needed.”

“Esteban here wasn’t quite clear about what you needed, Mr…”

“You may call me Kobo.”

“Fine. Kobo it is.”

Rico cocked his head to one side. “And now you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Call me Sanchez. It’s as good a name as any.”

“Very well, Mr. Sanchez. My…associates…need some specific items. Things we can only acquire here if we wish quality. M-16s or FN-FALs. And in quantity. At least one hundred.”

“I like a man who gets down to business. No pissing around, as they used to say. But I don’t know you, Mr. Kobo. I have heard of Mr. Burnett.”

“My word good enough for you? Kobo an’ I don’t move in the same circles exactly, but I’ve moved goods for him before.”

“I don’t doubt your word, Mr. Burnett. Or your reputation. But I need to make some checks of my own.”

Rico nodded. “Rest assured I shall do the same with you, Mr. Sanchez.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.” Sanchez flashed a quick grin, showing even, polished teeth. “For discussion’s sake, I might be able to produce M-16s in the quantity you seek. But I have another buyer who’s interested.”

“We will pay one thousand dollars per weapon. It is over market value, but my situation is time sensitive you see.”

Sanchez nodded. “Most things are. Provided you check out, we should have a deal. My other buyer isn’t in your price range. That and I think he wants to use the items locally. While you…”

“Rest assured your merchandise won’t be used on this continent.”

“Good.” Sanchez pushed back from the bar. “Esteban will page you as soon as I have made my checks. This time I pick the place and you the time.”

“Sold.” Sonny gave Sanchez a long Burnett look before turning back to the bar. “Be waiting to hear from you, Esteban.”

As soon as they were in the Ferrari, Rico was on the phone. “Trudy? Yeah, it’s me. Look, I need a cover backstopped like yesterday. Homer Kobo. Nigerian national. Make me some kinda terrorist, but the almost right-wing kind. Pick whatever group you like…I’ll memorize it when we get back. Something ‘international man of mystery.’ No U.S. record. And tell Castillo it looks like we’re in.”

Sonny keyed his own radio as soon as they pulled into traffic. “Get a loose box on those two. I want to know where Sanchez goes. And if he’s our Sanchez.”

 

Sonny and Rico were just pulling into the underground garage of the Task Force headquarters building when Pete Washington turned on his desk lap and scrubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He’d been going through the Sanchez files between the day-to-day details of his office. Confirming court security assignments and prisoner transports. Chewing out a deputy who’d blown a simple assignment followed by writing up one of his high-risk warrant teams for an exceptionally well-done assignment. Going through the files made him feel like a cop again instead of a bean-counter.

And he had that cop feeling he was on to something. It wasn’t flashing in bright neon…more like a bad smell in your camper you’re trying to track down before the big Memorial Day trip. He wasn’t sure if it was a dead gopher or unflushed toilet yet, but it was there plain as day.

Taking a sip of cold coffee from the mug next to a stack of files, Pete sighed and forced himself back to the FBI surveillance report filed the day before he was supposed to make the arrest. Something about it bothered him…bothered him enough he’d read through it five times already. Turning, he pulled out another folder and opened it. There had been two teams on Sanchez that day. One from the FBI and one from the Marshal’s Service. The FBI hadn’t known about the other team.

Moving from one folder to the other, he flipped pages. Checking the times and notes from each surveillance team. They’d been running close enough he wondered how they hadn’t tripped over each other when they stopped to get coffee or take a leak. But he wasn’t surprised at the proximity; Sanchez hadn’t done much that day aside from taking a couple of meetings in a Cuban café that had been turned into a trendy coffee shop about three years ago. Pete felt a smile stretch his face as he thought about it. The place had gone from being a favorite meeting place for anti-Castro nut jobs to a tourist trap in a matter of weeks. But there was something…

Sometimes there was a moment in a case when things just fell into place. It was like watching a jigsaw puzzle solve itself on the table in front of you, and Pete was having one of those moments. He’d almost forgotten how good they felt. It was a note buried in the Marshal’s Service team logs…something the FBI failed to mention. Just after Sanchez had tried to hit on the waitress for the tenth time, an anonymous deputy had made a short note. ‘Man in tan suit dropped matchbook on subject’s table,’ followed by a thumbnail sketch of the unidentified man. A description matching one of the FBI agents, right down to the color of his suit.

“Son of a bitch.” The words hissed through his pursed lips. “It was the damned FBI. Walter Frankel out of the Miami office. You bastard.” Pete had known Frankel in passing. Reasonably competent. A Commie-hater like many FBI agents of his time. The only question was had he done it all on his own or had the CIA put him up to it? Shaking his head, Pete closed the folders. There was no way to know. Walter Frankel had been killed in a shootout after he’d transferred to the New York City office back in 1982.

He sat for a time, staring at the manila folders with ‘confidential’ stamped on their covers in big red letters. At least now he knew there’d never been a chance for him to scoop up Sanchez. Bastard had known a day earlier I was coming for him. There was no other explanation for the match book, or why it had been left out of the otherwise painfully detailed FBI log. The omission also meant Frankel hadn’t been working on his own, but Pete didn’t care. Not now. What mattered was finally clearing the warrant.

Reaching out, he hit two buttons on his phone. There was a slight delay as the Task Force-supplied scrambler kicked in, and then he heard the buzz. “Marty? It’s Pete. I found the dead polecat. Yeah…right where we figured it was. Look, I know it ain’t regular, but I’ve got a favor to ask…”

 

Martin Castillo stared at the phone, letting the conversation run back through his head. He’d agreed to let Pete join the takedown. What else could he do? He owed the man more than he could ever repay for giving both him and his team a second chance. A new lease on life.

What he’d said about the FBI squared with what Castillo had learned as well. Even though the CIA and the FBI almost never agreed on anything, their almost pathological hatred of Castro in the ‘60s and ‘70s was a common bond. He had little trouble believing someone at CIA might have reached out to the local FBI office, and even less trouble believing they’d find one or more FBI agents willing to buck their own agency and tip off Sanchez. Especially since the warrant was for illegal arms sales.

The pressure was building behind his eyes again, and Castillo rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. It was a drill he knew too well: coming under scrutiny for its activities in Southeast Asia, the CIA was looking for new ways to move weapons to its clients. An anti-Castro Puerto Rican with connections in the Puerto Rican National Guard would have been tailor-made for them, and he knew they’d easily overlook the man’s ties to a violent Puerto Rican nationalist group. The enemy of my enemy, even if he blows up my own people. What would they call it? Acceptable loss. He’d seen it before, in the mountains of Laos, the Mekong Delta region of South Vietnam, and later in Thailand.

He did wonder what had changed. Maybe Sanchez was more interested in Puerto Rico now than he was arming Cuban anti-Castro groups. Maybe his old handler had left the Company. Or maybe they just needed a scapegoat for some operation or another that had gone south. Likely they’d never know. But turn on him the Company had, and with both barrels like it usually did. They just had to move fast, before the Company changed its mind. He’d seen that, too.

He found most of the team assembled in the conference room. Randy and Dave were conducting surveillance on Sanchez, but Lester Franz was sitting near their usual spot. “I’ve got a radio connection with them, boss,” he said, waving toward a microphone on the table. “They can hear and talk if you have questions.”

“Good work.” Lester’s technical ability still amazed him, and when combined with Switek there wasn’t anything the two couldn’t do. “Chief Deputy Washington wants to be involved in the apprehension of Sanchez. We’ll keep him read in as things develop.”

Sonny nodded and went over the meeting at the Overton. “Sorry we had to rush the Kobo thing, Trudy. I really expected him to want to dance about the weapons.”

“We’ve got you covered, Rico. I set up Kobo with a thin Interpol sheet for various misdeeds in Africa. Nothing big enough to warrant the FBI sticking their noses in, but it should keep Sanchez happy.” Trudy turned to Castillo. “I also planted it with the Company just in case. Again, low level stuff. Nothing to get them interested. You’re just another revolutionary looking for a cause after the colonial power pulled out.”

“As far as they’re concerned, Africa is where careers go to die. We shouldn’t have any problems.” Castillo sat down, gritting his teeth as his headache reminded him of its presence. “This tells me Sanchez doesn’t take Billabo seriously. Or he knows Omega-7 has a contract out on him. Either way it works in our favor.”

The small speaker next to the microphone crackled and Dave’s voice came through. “Subject just dropped Esteban outside that hotel Sonny found him at and is headed for Little Havana.”

Lester looked down the table. “They’re using two cars, captain. Dave in one, Randy in another. Seemed the best way to box him without looking like Feds crammed into a tan sedan.”

“Do we know if Sanchez has ever seen Pete?”

“Assume he has, Tubbs.”

“Then he stays with the arrest team.” Sonny’s voice was Burnett final. “Sanchez knows his tradecraft. He’ll scout the site he picks well in advance, and likely show up early.”

Castillo nodded, looking down at the table for a moment. Gathering his thoughts. “Did he show any concern about the quantity of rifles?”

“Didn’t bat an eyelash.” Rico shook his head. “I got the feelin’ maybe Billabo wasn’t buying enough. Sanchez might be tryin’ to clear his inventory.”

Mindy tapped a finger on the table. “If he’s got one hundred M-16s, what the hell else does he have?”

“We need to shut him down. This is bigger than an old warrant.” Castillo looked around the table. “I’ll have the chief deputy alert one of his warrant teams.”

“Get Brick’s, if it’s available.” Sonny locked eyes with Castillo. “They know us and how we work.”

“Finish things here, Crockett. I’ll make the call.”

Back in his office, Castillo swallowed two aspirin and closed his eyes, letting them do their work. Mindy had put his fear into words. What else does this man have access to? Maybe that’s why the Company gave him up. A handful of rifles is one thing, but this goes well beyond that. Likely they’d never find out what Sanchez really had or why the Company had given him up. Castillo knew that. He also knew all that mattered was stopping him before the weapons ended up in the wrong hands.

Pete answered on the second ring. “Chief deputy? Yes, it’s Castillo. We’re going to need a warrant team tomorrow and held on standby for a day or two after that in case the target shifts the date of the meeting. I’d prefer to take him with the weapons, but he’s dangerous enough I don’t want to leave him on the streets any longer than necessary.” He listened to the excited Southern sheriff voice on the other end of the line. “You can ride with the warrant team. Crockett doesn’t want to risk spooking Sanchez, and I agree. He has sound tradecraft. I’m holding the Task Force back as well.”

They talked for a few moments longer and then Castillo hung up. The aspirin was starting to work its magic, and he felt some tension drain away after taking care of Pete. The chief deputy was a good cop, but he sometimes let his enthusiasm run over his common sense. Especially when things felt personal. It reminded him of Crockett.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Yes?”

Rico stuck his head in. “Sanchez just parked his backside at the Full Moon. And Randy got a good look at him and confirmed it’s our Sanchez all right. He’s got some good vacation photos to share when he gets back. At least that’s what he said.”

“Good. Make sure Sergeant Franz has the taps running. If he makes any calls, we need to know about it.”

“You got it, captain.” Tubbs spun on the heel of his aligator shoe and headed back to the conference room.

Alone again with his thoughts, Castillo looked out the wide windows. Somewhere out there Ignatio Sanchez was trying to sell at least one hundred M-16s and whatever else he’d managed to obtain from the Puerto Rican National Guard. And he might have succeeded if Pete Washington hadn’t flagged that warrant all those years gone now. Throwing something out on the wind that had finally come back.

Much as he wanted to get the weapons along with the man, Castillo knew it might not happen. They didn’t even know if the rifles were in the United States or waiting elsewhere. He knew in his gut, though, that Sanchez was key. Take him and the rifles wouldn’t move.

 

Back in the conference room, Sonny and Rico drank coffee and listened to the play by play radioed in by Randy and Dave along with running commentary from Lester monitoring the taps. Dave had stayed with his car, while Randy reverted to his spotter nature and took the high ground in one of their observation spots. The two former scout-snipers had spent weeks dividing the city into observation grids and finding usable overwatch points in every one. Once again the work was paying for itself.

Rico stretched and looked across the table at Sonny. “How long you think this chump can suck down cheap beer and beat his gums?”

“I figure he’ll do it until he gets what he’s waiting for.” Sonny paused to listen to another radio report from Randy. “Guy like that doesn’t just put down roots in a dump like the Full Moon. He’s waitin’ for someone or something.”

Lester stuck his head out of the tech office. “Your prayers have been answered, Sonny. Call coming through from our other friend, Ricky. Bartender’s getting Sanchez now.” There was a crackle from one of the speakers on the conference room table. “Patching it through now. I don’t wanna leave the tapes.”

Sonny recognized Sanchez’s voice immediately. “I’ve had another offer on that merchandise, Ricky. A very generous one.”

Sonny had never heard Ricky Billabo’s voice before. It was high for a big man, and squeaky, too. “Come on, man! I thought we had a deal. For the cause!”

“The other offer is for the entire package, not just part of it. And it’s not in this country. Easier to move.” There was a pause. “I think we can still do business, though. For different product, yes?”

Ricky sighed. It was a long, painful thing that made Sonny wince. “Too far in to start over. But there’d better be some kind of discount, or…”

“Or nothing.” A steel came into Sanchez’s voice. “You either do the deal or you do not. You forget, Ricky, you need me. Not the other way around.” Ricky started to stammer a reply, but he was talking to a dead line.

Sonny grinned. “Looks like Kobo is in. And now we know the guns aren’t in Florida. Maybe not even in the US.”

“At least on the mainland. He could have ‘em stashed on one of the Keys or even Puerto Rico.” Rico shook his head. “Cat has connections there. Wouldn’t be a thing for him to stash his toys close to home.”

“Gives us a way in, though. You’ll need transport to get the goods to your handy little freighter that happens to be loitering in international waters.” Sonny looked down at the table. “And Burnett’s just the delivery driver.”

“Yeah. An’ now all we gotta do is wait for the phone to ring.”

“Uh…guys…listen to the line.” Lester’s voice was thin. “It’s the Full Moon again. You might want to get Mindy in here. They’re speakin’ Spanish.”

They missed the first few moments of the conversation, but once Mindy got in the room she started translating. Sanchez’s voice was familiar, but the other voice wasn’t. “Payphone down by the water,” Lester whispered before ducking back into his office.

Sonny watched as Mindy cocked her her head to follow the conversation. Languages had never been his thing. Hell, even the Taco Bell menu gives me fits. Damned glad we have her in the office. Trudy, too. I know Rico’s got some Spanish, but not like Mindy’s

“Sanchez is asking if the man on the other end can take care of a problem for him.” She paused. “The other guy is dancing, like he doesn’t want to commit. Sanchez just mentioned Omega-7 and a bounty.” The line went dead. “Before he hung up, the other guy said he’d think about it.” She looked at Sonny. “I’ll have a good transcript as soon as I get the tape from Lester, boss.”

“Thanks, Mindy, but your highlight version tells us what we need to know.” Sonny turned back to Rico. “Sanchez is tryin’ to wrap up loose ends.”

 

The page came at ten the next morning, right after Sonny finished listening to Dave go over their surveillance report. “Bastard stayed at that damned bar until close,” Dave finished, not looking at his notes. “Then he took a cab back to a fleapit in Little Havana and crashed out. Randy caught some sack time an’ has the place on overwatch now. He leaves, we’ll know.” Then Dave turned to the notes. “Lester’s crashed out, too, but he said to tell you our pal didn’t make another call about Ricky. At least not from the bar. He said we don’t have wires on the fleapit, but he also thinks Sanchez ain’t dumb enough to shit where he sleeps.” The sniper grinned. “Well…he didn’t say that exactly but I figure it’s more colorful.”

“Good work.” Sonny looked down at the pager and smiled. “And he won’t be leaving for a couple of minutes, at least. Looks like his page.”

Rico grinned. “Solid. Make him wait a couple of minutes an’ then call from someplace interesting.”

Nodding, Sonny hit some buttons on the phone. “Got a coffee shop pay phone keyed in. Fits the profile and he can’t check it. Can’t have Kobo calling from a strip club.”

“Not even Rizzo’s?”

“Especially not Rizzo’s.” Sonny chuckled. “You think it’ll be Esteban again or the man himself?” He looked at his watch. “Time to make nice.”

Someone picked up on the second ring. “Burnett?”

Sonny shook his head. Esteban’s voice was hard to mistake for anyone else. “This better be about Sanchez.”

“It is. Is your friend close by?”

“Yep. And ready to deal.” Sonny paused. “Gotta say he was starting to wonder if you’d call.”

“We meet at Los Diablos. You know it?”

“Cheap restaurant just outside Little Havana? Yeah. I pick the time. We meet at four.”

“We’ll be there. Me an’ Mr. Sanchez.”

“Fine by me. Just don’t expect your finder’s fee until the deal’s done.”

“I know how business works, Mr. Burnett.” Esteban paused again and then tried to walk back what he’d said. “You know what I mean, Mr. Burnett. I didn’t…”

“Yeah, yeah. Just be there with Sanchez and be ready to deal. I think Kobo’s starting to think you two might be jerking him around. I think you’re on the level, but you don’t want me to start thinking different.” He let that hang in the air for a heartbeat. “Four at Los Diablos. We’ll be there. Be sure you two are, too.” He hung up before Esteban could say anything.

“I’ll let Castillo know.” Rico got to his feet, then stopped. “I was kinda hopin’ that would have been Sanchez.”

“Yeah. But you know as well as I do…morons like Esteban always get caught in the middle.” Sonny started hitting buttons on the phone again. “I’ll let Pete know the score.”

 

“The warrant team’s on standby, Sonny. They’ll go on your command. Good work pinnin’ this joker down.” Pete Washington kept his voice even, letting that little bit of Cracker sheriff he used to mislead people slip in. I ain’t lying to Sonny. Not really. The team will be there, and they are under Task Force control. But there’s gonna be a strap hanger.

Sleep had been slow coming the night before, and never stayed long once it did. He kept thinking back to that raid in ’74. The one that had dropped on an empty room with a sandwich wrapper and lukewarm cup of coffee. They’d missed him by minutes. He’d been furious at the time, but nothing compared to what he felt now. Knowing he’d been ratted out by his own side.

Of course Frankel was long gone, and even if he wasn’t the FBI protective association would have kept him safe. He could hear them now…muttering about national security and special orders he wasn’t cleared to see. It was all bullshit, of course; the amount of bullshit directly connected to how many times they mentioned national security.

Getting to his feet, Pete walked to the big windows, keeping his hands in his trouser pockets so he wouldn’t see his own knuckles turning white. He knew what Castillo intended, and also knew it was good policy for him to be far away from the bust until after it was done. There was always a slim chance Sanchez would recognize him…there was no telling just what Frankel had given to the Puerto Rican terrorist as part of the tip.

He was so deep in his thoughts he almost jumped when someone knocked on the office door. “It’s Brick, boss. We a go on that op with the Task Force?”

Turning, Pete grinned at the massive man who led one of his high-risk warrant teams. “Yeah, deputy. The op’s a go. Reach out to Castillo or Crockett and they’ll read you in. It’s a basic takedown, but there’s a chance the guy might have some firepower close by.”

“This the one that got away?”

“Man, they need to stop talkin’ shop out there.” Pete grinned again to hide a brief flash of annoyance. The plan forming in the back of his mind wouldn’t work if that was known by everyone and the cleaning lady. “Keep it under your hat, though. We clear?”

“Crystal, boss. Just wondering is all. It ain’t often someone gives Pistol Pete the slip.”

“Damn right it isn’t. Now you make those calls, hear? Sonny just told me the meet’s goin’ down this afternoon.”

Alone again, Pete turned back to the window, rocking back and forth on his heels as he worked through the problem. The smart move would be to sit back and let his dogs do the work. But Pete was smart enough to know he wasn’t always smart, especially when his pride was hurt. And Sanchez had done that well enough all those years ago. No…he was going to finish this his way.

 

They ran through the plan one last time as Sonny pulled into a parking spot just down the block from Los Diablos. “We go in, look around, and sound out Sanchez. If he looks squirrelly at all, you hit the pager an’ the word ends.”

Sonny chuckled. “Something like that. Brick and his team can be on the place in two minutes from where they’re staging, and I’d bet Randy gets there sooner.” He shut off the engine. “And Lester was sure there were no more calls?”

“Not from the Full Moon, at least.” Rico straightened his tie. “He did confirm Ricky’s at the Lame Bull. Makes sense to send Trudy and Mindy with Dave to pick him up. They should have him by now.”

“Yeah. Even Castillo doesn’t want to see the idiot whacked. Guess he’s got an outstanding warrant or two as well, so that should make Pete happy.”

“You hear from him?”

“Not after that confirmation call. Brick said he was gonna watch from the stands.”

“I don’t know…something don’t feel right, Sonny.”

“You sure that just isn’t the veggie burger you had for lunch?” Sonny slapped his partner on the shoulder. “Pete’s not gonna go off the reservation if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s been a cop too long for that.” He pushed his sunglasses up on his nose and opened the Ferrari door. “Come on. The party ain’t gonna start without us.”

Los Diablos was one of those places built in the faint hope of luring in tourists, complete with red devils painted on each side of the door. “Cute. The devils.” Sonny looked over at Rico. “Who in their right mind would plant a Mexican joint outside Little Havana?”

Rico shrugged. “I’d bet it’s traditional Cuban. But you know Kobo doesn’t care about these things.”

“No, I bet he doesn’t. Let’s go.”

Inside it was cool and dim, and the decor looked more Caribbean than Mexican. Tubbs was right. There was a narrow bar held down by two burly men who might have been cousins. They didn’t look up from their beers. The bartender didn’t, either. Instead a slim girl with raven’s wing hair and bright eyes bounced up from her spot at a hostess stand just inside the doorway. “Two?”

Sonny nodded. “We’re here to meet someone. Esteban.”

The girl’s face changed and she rolled her eyes. “He and his friends are near the back. And you tell him if he pinches my ass one more time…”

“He’ll have to deal with me.” Sonny set his face in Burnett granite.

As they stepped away from the door, Rico leaned over. “She said…”

“Yeah. I heard.” Friends. Not friend. What the hell is Esteban playing at? Or maybe Sanchez didn’t give him a choice. “We’re goin’ in anyhow.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Rico settled into the slightly jerky gait he’d adopted for Kobo.

It wasn’t hard to spot Esteban. In fact, Sonny was pretty sure he could smell the guy’s suntan lotion over the thick scent of frying onions and peppers wafting from the kitchen. Sanchez he recognized from the photos, both the old file ones and the more recent stills taken by Dave and Randy. Guy’s hard to miss. He looks like a shorter Ricardo Montalban. The third man was about Sanchez’s age, with thick hair dyed black and a leathery tan. Esteban in another twenty years. Assuming the punk lives that long. There was something familiar about him, but Sonny couldn’t quite connect the dots. Not yet, at least.

Esteban reacted to Sanchez’s look and turned. “Mr. Burnett! Mr. Kobo! Please…have a seat. I’ll go check on the food.”

Sonny shook his head. “You stay put. Our reservation was for two, not three. I don’t want any more surprises.”

Sanchez had a thin smile that didn’t show any teeth. “You are as careful as your reputation suggests, Mr. Burnett.”

“A man doesn’t make it to retirement in my business by being anything else.” Sonny turned to Rico. “It’s your call, Kobo. Still want to deal?”

Rico slipped off his sunglasses and made a show of tucking them inside his suit coat. “I do not care for surprises, either. But my business is important. We will see what this man has to say.”

Esteban’s sweating like a pig. Sonny motioned with his hand. “Sit down, Esteban. Have some water. You look pale under that tan.” He waited for Rico to sit before hooking a chair for himself, positioning it so he could watch both Sanchez and the stranger. “Who’s your friend?”

“Security.” Sanchez shrugged. “This is a dangerous part of town, and I am in a dangerous business.”

“Ok, Mr. Security. You just sit nice and still now.” Sonny unbuttoned his black suit coat, letting a hint of the big 4506-1 show. “And there had better be no more surprises.”

Sanchez nodded. “I understand you need some…tools…for your friends in Nigeria.”

“Yes. One hundred of them. At least. And we insist on quality.”

Sonny let them talk, focusing his attention on the rest of Los Diablos. Rico was a hell of a dealmaker, and he’d keep Sanchez spinning for as long as they needed. But the presence of the other man still bothered him. Where there’s one shooter there’s usually more. And Esteban’s too damned scared. He’s been on buys before. Something’s wrong.

 

No one paid much mind to the older man in the corner eating a plate of beans and rice. With his worn shoes and threadbare slacks and shirt he was just another older Cubano in for a taste of home and a couple of drinks before heading home to a nagging wife and three or four kids. Or maybe he was Haitian…in this part of town it was hard to say.

Gotta say this shit ain’t bad. Not as good as what we’d get in New Orleans, but a man’s gotta make do. Pete Washington scooped up another forkful and chewed slowly, projecting a weariness into his movements. He’d been here for close to an hour, nursing a cup of Cuban coffee and glass of rum before ordering the food. It wasn’t an unusual thing for a Cuban or Haitian of his age to do, and the young waitress didn’t even blink. She’d even called him ‘uncle’ when she brought the food.

But he’d seen Sanchez come in, along with the oiled guy and the muscle. But he’d also seen the fourth man come in with them, only to peel off and head into the kitchen no more than five minutes after they sat down. It was never a good sign when they decided to hide some of the muscle. Then Sanchez started talking low and fast to the kid, punctuating some of the words with a forefinger jammed in Esteban’s chest. It’s either gonna be a rip or a hit.

The weight of the big Colt Python was a comfort under his left arm. It was the same gun he’d carried back in ’74, and he’d strapped it on instead of his usual .45 as sort of a talisman. He’d carried the big Magnum on all his warrant arrests, and it just didn’t feel right going on one without it. As he was getting in costume, Pete had almost laughed at himself. Now he was glad he’d made the choice. Might need the old girl after all.

From where he sat it looked like the deal was moving forward. Tubbs was in deep conversation with Sanchez, and he could see Sonny’s head moving as he kept scanning the restaurant. From where he is he can’t see the kitchen. Esteban looked like he was going to crap his pants at any moment, and the shooter could have been carved from tan marble. Trained. No question. Only question is by who?

Even as he watched, Pete couldn’t stop his mind. The timing of the whole thing still bothered him. Why now? Why does this asshole pop back up now? And how the hell did he link up with the kid? Pete had pulled Esteban’s jacket as soon as the name came in, and the kid was strictly small time. Minor coke buys. The occasional pistol or two. Someone like Ignatio Sanchez was way the hell out of his league.

He watched Tubbs wave toward Crockett and could almost hear the line. Tubbs would be telling Sanchez that Crockett was handling the transportation, so he didn’t need to bother. Almost on cue Sonny nodded and shifted a bit in his chair. That would be the ‘this is what I do and don’t fuck with me’ line. Pete forked in another load of beans and rice to keep from smiling. Now Sanchez said something, likely assuring them the weapons were offshore somewhere and easy to pick up.

It was a slight movement, almost so faint Pete might have missed it. The shooter moved his left hand just a hair, touching something around his waist level. They’re using pagers. That’s a signal. Setting down his fork, Pete shifted in his chair so his weight was centered just above the balls of his feet. He had to be careful…he didn’t want Crockett to spot him and mistake him for a bad guy. But he had to be ready to move. Things were about to go down.

He was watching the dented aluminum door when it swung open and the second shooter came out of the kitchen. The two big guys at the bar finished their beers at the same moment and started heading for the door. It looked natural enough if you weren’t watching the kitchen, so he doubted if Sonny paid them much mind. The bartender picked up whatever they’d left on the bar and headed for the back with their dirty glasses. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Unless you saw the shooter and realized they’d cleared the area behind Sanchez’s table.

Still, Pete waited. There were no weapons on display, and the last thing he wanted was to make a bad bust and have these assholes walk. Again. He could feel his heart rate climb as the man from the kitchen took another step. Come on, you jackass! Give me something! He wanted to reach for the Python but knew he didn’t dare. Any movement might distract Crockett, or worse yet draw his attention. He wanted Sanchez, but he also wanted to protect the cover of his Task Force people as well as he could. That meant taking down Sonny and Rico along with the rest.

There! The second shooter raised his right hand, showing Pete the long nose of a suppressor attached to what looked like a Beretta. Got you, asshole! In one movement he was on his feet, the big stainless steel Python coming out and settling into a two-handed grip. His voice boomed, sounding more like a Cracker sheriff than George Jefferson. “U.S. Marshals! Show me your hands!”

From the corner of his eye he saw Crockett hit something on his belt before raising his hands. Panic button. Good man! Then he saw the suppressor tracking his way. Somewhere in the distance he heard Sanchez shout, and then he fired.

In the confined space the .357 Magnum sounded like a howitzer back in Vietnam. The heavy hollow point took the shooter in the chest, slamming him back against the bar. “Don’t you boys do it! Show me them hands. Now! You two fancy boys, get ‘em up, hear?” Then he focused his full gaze on Sanchez. “Ignatio Sanchez, I have a Federal warrant for your arrest. You move those hands and I might forget it wants you alive.”

 

“…and when we got there Chief Deputy Washington had ‘em all lined up against the bar.” Randy looked across the table. “Sonny an’ Rico, too. We made a show but cut them loose. Esteban, too. Nothing to charge ‘em for, so it looked legit. Turns out the second shooter has an active warrant out of Lauderdale, so we hauled him in.”

Martin Castillo nodded, looking around the table before letting his gaze settle on Pete. “I do want to know what you were doing in that restaurant, chief deputy.”

Pete was still wearing his old Cubano outfit. “Sure. I’d want to know the same thing if I caught you at one of my meets.” He grinned. “Part of it’s personal. I wanted to be there when we got Sanchez. But the other part’s professional. Something about the whole thing smelled to me. Stank like a polecat in an outhouse in August. This Esteban, he ain’t no gun runner. Not on Sanchez’s level, anyhow. And when I got there an’ saw two shooters, I knew someone was settin’ your boys up.”

“He’s not wrong, Marty.” Sonny had taken off his Burnett black and was wearing a cream blazer again. “I was gettin’ bad vibes about the whole thing when we walked in. Esteban was sweating like a pig, and there was just something about Sanchez. But we had to play it out to find out what the hell he was up to.”

Castillo nodded in spite of himself. He didn’t like it, and he didn’t like Pete’s play. But he also had to be honest…he would have done exactly the same thing in that situation. He had done the same thing.

Trudy’s voice broke the silence. “Ricky Billabo starting talking almost as soon as we slapped the cuffs on him. Turns out he’d heard of Sanchez before, but never met him.”

Mindy nodded. “He got the name a few years back, when he was still in Omega-7’s good graces. He also told us who gave him the name. Maynard.”

Rico whistled. “Good ol’ Captain Real Estate. Bastard’s dead and he still manages to mess things up.”

“It still doesn’t answer why he was targeting Crockett and Tubbs.” Castillo let his gaze slide around the table. “That’s an answer we need.”

Pete cleared his throat. “I think he was after Burnett mostly, and Kobo would have been collateral damage.” He scratched at stubble on his cheek. “Don’t know how you boys can grow beards.” He grinned at Rico. “Itchin’ would drive me round the bend. Anyhow, I did some more diggin’ before leaving the office and it turns out Sanchez had some ties to a couple of shipping companies of questionable means and activities. Given Burnett’s reputation in that area…”

“He’d see me as a threat. Someone to get out of the way before he moved in and set up operations.” Sonny nodded slowly. “It fits.”

“But it still don’t answer why the Company pushed Sanchez out of his hideout.”

“Maybe it does.” Sonny looked from Rico to Castillo. “Think about it. They greenlit Maynard. Handed him to us. If Sanchez was working for Maynard, this might be their way of sweeping up his loose ends.”

“Makes sense.” Randy nodded in agreement. “Saw some of those bastards back in-country. Never took the straight path when a damned corkscrew would do. An’ they hate doin’ their own dirty work. They mighta been hopin’ Sanchez would be whacked when Omega-7 took out Ricky. Burnett would have been collateral damage, too.”

“We need to be sure.” Castillo turned back to Pete. “I need to talk to Sanchez.”

The interrogation room in the Federal building was cleaner than the one in OCB, but it was also about ten years newer. Ignatio Sanchez sat at the lone table, his handcuffs attached to a circular hold in the middle of the table. Castillo watched him through the glass for five minutes before going in.

“Ah. So now comes the man in black.” Sanchez grinned. “What is your offer?”

“I don’t make offers.” Castillo didn’t sit. He stood in the far corner of the room, forcing Sanchez to turn awkwardly if he wanted to look at him. “Why did you come back to Miami?”

“I don’t…”

“Of course you do. Did the Company tell you to get out of Panama? And then Costa Rica? Or did they just withdraw their protection? Once Maynard was dead it must have been difficult for them to justify keeping you covered. I know many things about you, Ignatio. Many, many things. Enough to ensure the warrant grows bigger and bigger until it swallows you whole.”

“Your threats don’t scare me.”

“I don’t threaten.” Castillo shifted, the movement forcing Sanchez to strain his neck to see. “I learned in Vietnam threats are pointless. I promise. The Company will not protect you. They made that clear. I can promise you will go down for the original warrant, as well as arms dealing, trafficking, and anything else I can find to add to those charges. I can promise you daylight is something you will never see again. I can also promise you if you screw with me you’ll end up in general population with a tag that will make sure you don’t last a week. Snitch. Child molester. Something to ensure your death will be painful and slow.”

“You can’t do that.” For the first time Castillo heard real fear in Sanchez’s voice.

“I can. And much more. But if you answer my questions, you’ll just answer for the original warrant and fugitive charges. You might live to see the sun again.”

“I won’t give up…”

“I don’t care who your handler was. That was yesterday. I care about today. And what you were doing in Los Diablos.”

“That?” Sanchez shook his head. “That was a trifle. But I did want to come back to Miami, or I should say I had no place else to go, and for the business I planned Burnett was a threat. You know of him?”

“You wanted to move into the transportation sector?”

“Yes. I also know Esteban was trying to curry favor with him. So when the idiot from Omega-7 contacted me about weapons, I thought it might be a chance to smoke out Burnett.”

“How did you know he’d be the one?”

“When Esteban said he’d been contacted by a foreign buyer, I knew there was no one else who could handle that kind of transportation. They aren’t in the country, so Burnett was essential to any deal.” Sanchez paused. “Esteban is a flea on a dog’s back. But he’s also known to sell guns from time to time and I also know that’s not Burnett’s normal area of activity. It was fate that brought us together.” He paused. “And fate that brought that one there to arrest me.”

“So you remember him?”

“Yes.”

“He’ll be glad to know that. He remembered you, too.” Castillo moved out of the corner and knocked on the interrogation room door. “You can book and transport him now. For the original warrant charges only.” He turned and looked at Sanchez. “I don’t threaten, remember? We’ll talk about the locations of the weapons later.”

 

In the observation room, Pete Washington nodded slowly. “Guess that reputation came back to bite you on the ass, son.”

Sonny nodded. “Guess so. Still, it helped you get your fugitive.”

“Yeah. Case closed.” Pete smiled, feeling the familiar warmth spread through his chest. “Feels good to finally catch the one that got away.”

“Maybe. But next time you go back in the field, let us know first. Ok?”

Pete laughed now, slapping Sonny on the shoulder. “You got it. I promise.” He turned away from the window. “Now I feel like a damned beer. My treat. An’ you can ask Mather and Blair about that. I don’t treat all that damned often.”