Genesis, Part XXXVII

[Robbie C.]

“I see.” Miguel’s knuckles went white on the phone receiver as he listened to his lawyer’s high-pitched whining. “And it wasn’t local people?” Without another word he slammed down the phone before picking it up again and dialing a number. His plans for the day turned to ash in his mouth, but Enrique needed to hear it from him.

“So they arrested them both?”

Miguel winced at the bite in Enrique’s voice. “Yes. I’m afraid so. They were at Joe’s Crab Shack when the arrest went down. I’m told it wasn’t Metro-Dade, though. It was U.S. Marshals.”

“What is this, freakin’ Dodge City?”

Miguel had to smile at the reference to Gunsmoke, a show they’d watched often as children. “These days I don’t know. Maybe it is. But both Holly and Tiffy are in custody. Our lawyer said he hasn’t heard from either of them yet, so we don’t know what the charges are.”

“So what do we do?”

“We relocate. To the house in the Bahamas. We need time and space to consider our next moves.”

“What about the girls?”

“They’ll get bail. I’m sure of that. Neither of them have done anything that would warrant holding them. And we have the resources to make bail for them no matter the amount. And then we bring them to us.”

There was a long pause. He could sense Enrique slipping away from him. And then his brother’s voice came back. “You know I was going to meet them for lunch. If I hadn’t have stopped here I would have been arrested with them. What do you need me to do?”

“Get here with that boat of yours. The big, fast one.” He thought back to Esteban. He’d feel much better if he had the big Cuban with him, but he knew it just wasn’t in the cards. Whatever Federal warrant they’d cooked up for him was airtight. But Lupe was almost as good. “I’ll have security with me. We’ll be safe if we move quickly.”

“Quickly is what this boat does, bother. You can count on that.”

There’s something in his voice. I don’t like it. “Are you ok?”

“Just tired.” Enrique’s voice was thin, drawn out like it was coming from a great distance. “I’ve been tired ever since Pasqual, you know. Anyhow, I’d better get moving.” There was a click, and the dial tone filled Miguel’s ear.

It’s all falling in. Every piece of it.

Enrique jammed the throttles wide open, hearing and feeling the big boat surge forward under his feet. He’d always wondered just how fast she could go, and this seemed like the perfect time to find out. He knew Miguel was waiting for him at the main boathouse. But he also knew he wasn’t going to make the meeting.

How had it all gone so damned wrong? He couldn’t answer the question, not even for himself. Maybe it was Pasqual…not seeing the signs of his friend’s disappointment and betrayal. Or maybe it was before that, going all the way back to Jaime. He thought about Miguel’s ambition, but dismissed the thought. Miguel had never been particularly ambitious in that sense. He just wanted to secure the family name. Restore it to its rightful place. And they had. Until now.

The wind whipped at his hair, ripping his sunglasses from his face. Turning, he imagined he could see Pasqual sitting next to him, his face twisted in the demented grin he always had when they opened a boat up all the way. Rationally he knew Pasqual wasn’t there…he’d blown the man’s head off after all. But the mind has its own ways of playing tricks.

“We almost had it,” he shouted over the roar of the engines. “If you’d just played it straight, Pasqual, we would have had it all.” His mind flashed back to an image of Tiffy handcuffed and being stuffed into the back seat of a Metro-Dade patrol car. If he hadn’t stopped to piss they would have cuffed him, too. But handcuffs meant jail, and Enrique was never going to jail. No way, no how.

The boat jumped over a swell, and for a moment he forgot where he was. And when he was. He was back on the race circuit, pushing his boat along the latest course. In the lead, of course. He’d always been in the lead in those days. Blasting through the waves during the day and having his pick of ladies at night. Until he met Tiffy and that changed. And then he started running cigars, and the races pretty much stopped. Dodging the Coast Guard and other smugglers was way more exciting than racing.

Something squawked in the distance, and he knew the Coast Guard helicopter must have spotted his wake. It would be hard to miss, after all. A go-fast doing over sixty knots left a hell of a plume in the water. He couldn’t make out what they were saying over the loudspeaker, but he knew the drill. They were likely trying to vector cutters on intercept courses, assuming he was running for open water, and hoped he’d slow down to listen to them. His face twisted into something close to a smile. They had no idea he wasn’t running. Or slowing down.

He could feel Pasqual over there now. Checking the radar like he always did when he was riding the second seat. Looking down, he saw the needles inching closer to red. I’ve never had her this fast before. The thought formed and was swept away by the salt-tanged air blasting around the low windshield. The engines roared, thundering their song in his ears.

“We got this, Pasqual!” he shouted at nothing. “We fucking got this, man! Nothing but ocean, baby!” Looking over, he saw his friend grin and nod. It was time. Things had to end, but he wanted the ending on his own terms. Not his brother’s. And least of all not the one the people in the helicopter wanted.

The go-fast was doing almost seventy knots when Enrique Mendoza cranked the wheel all the way to the right. The boat heeled over, the bow coming down hard and catching water, and then cartwheeled across the open sea, tearing itself apart with each tumbling impact. The helicopter crew could only watch and call in coordinates as fuel started to explode.

They found bits of Enrique’s body scattered over a good half-mile of water once the search teams got on scene, at least what the fire didn’t claim and fish didn’t eat. Three weeks later it was declared an accident, possibly caused by a mechanical failure in the steering system.

 

He should have been here by now. Miguel Mendoza looked at his watch again, trying to keep any irritation from showing on his face. First Esteban disappeared, likely arrested by some Federal agency if his South Beach patrol contact was to be believed, and now Enrique not showing up on time. If they were going to make it to the Bahamas free and clear, things needed to go according to plan. And so far nothing had gone according to plan.

He stopped pacing and turned to Lupe. “Any word from Enrique?”

“No, jefe. My people last saw him pulling out in that black boat he favors. That was over half an hour ago. They did say a helicopter flew over the boat house a couple of minutes after Ricky left. It might have been the Coast Guard.”

“Check with them. Now.”

Nodding, Lupe turned and hurried to the phone. He spoke for a couple of minutes, then hung up and came back. “They said it was Coast Guard. They can see smoke out on the ocean, and they’re getting ready to pull out. Franco says the bird is coming back, and he’s afraid they’re going to be raided.”

Miguel nodded, his brain trying to process the news of smoke. Something told him Enrique was dead, likely by his own hand. It’s my fault. I should have been the one to finish Pasqual, not him. He doesn’t…didn’t…have the stones for it. There’s no shame in that, but he wouldn’t see it that way. My proud, foolish brother.

Then he started thinking. If they’d hit Enrique’s location there was a damned good chance they knew all of his properties. Including this boat house. He’d never really dealt with the Marshal’s Service before, but he knew they had a reputation for being thorough. And the senior deputy in charge of the Miami office had an equally ferocious reputation for never letting go once he got his teeth into a case. And that could mean only one thing.

The boats they had here weren’t his best, but they’d have to do. At least he knew the pilots were the best, and Lupe’s men would deal with anything that came their way. “Get the men moving! We need to go now!” Looking around, he saw the useless piece of flesh Enrique had promoted to replace Pasqual bolt for the door. Fucking coward. I’ll kill him myself. He started to turn when a crackling PA system cut through his thoughts like a razor through tissue.

 

From where he stood, Martin Castillo could see the tactical team from the Marshal’s Service  moving into position. Big men with black flack jackets and jeans armed with a mix of shotguns and sub machine-guns, they looked to know every inch of their job and moved with the casual ease of men who’d done this before. When they hit the boathouse it would be over.

The arrest of the women had gone according to plan. From the bustle along the docks he could tell Miguel had heard about it, and likely he guessed Morales was in custody, too. At this distance it looked like an ant hill kicked by a child, but he knew there was purpose behind the movements. And he also knew it was time.

Standing next to him, Pete Washington grinned and raised his radio. “Ok, boys. Execute.”

The flat boom of flash-bang grenades competed with a buzzing PA system in terms of total, overwhelming noise. “U.S. Marshals! Drop your weapons and come out with your hands up!” A handful of popping shots from the far side of the building told him this wouldn’t end quietly, followed by the boom of a shotgun wielded by the first deputy through the side door.

“Well, let’s get our sorry asses down there.” Pete pulled an older .45 out of his hip holster and worked the slide. “Let the boys know we mean business.”

Even without Esteban Morales the Cubans were putting up a fight. Loyal to the last he thought as they moved toward the building. The shots came in quick clusters now, marking progress as the deputies cleared one room after another. He could hear them talking in his lone earpiece. So far it sounded like only the boat crews were surrendering.

Then Switek came on the air. “We just stopped a car at the roadblock, lieutenant. Looks like Pasqual’s replacement and a back seat full of party favors.”

“The one rat in the ship.” Castillo looked over at Pete when they reached the initial breach point.

“Cason’s hit! Looks like there are four or five of ‘em holed up at the far end of the structure.”

Pete shook his head. “Sounds like we found Miguel.” Then he keyed his mic. “Assume containment positions. Get the wounded out of there. You know the drill, people.”

Castillo turned his head to look at the marshal. “So we wait for negotiators?”

“Hell no. Those bastards shot one of my boys. But it don’t hurt to let them think we’re waiting for the handholders with bullhorns.” Pete raised a hand. “Now I ain’t against those people when it has a chance of working. But do you think we’d be able to talk Esteban’s boys out?”

“No. They’re trained and determined. Once they have their orders, they carry them through. It’s how they were trained.”

“Exactly.” Pete keyed his radio again. “I want Team One in an overwatch position. They have a green light if anyone armed sticks their damned head up.”

Snipers. Castillo thought back to the two men he’d seen getting out of the flat black van. They’d kept apart from the rest of the warrant team, and he remembered seeing one with a long rifle case.

Pete seemed to read his mind. “I’ve got two former Marines in my office. Scout-snipers from Vietnam. Kinda my secret weapon for situations like this.”

A new voice came on the radio. Low and full of backwoods from someplace out West. It sounded vaguely familiar, but Castillo couldn’t place it. “Team One in position, boss. Confirm green light.”

“You’re confirmed, Team One. But if the main target sticks his head out, shoot to wound, ok?”

A dry chuckle filled Castillo’s ear, and then the channel went dead. I know I’ve heard that laugh before. But where? And when?

A quick crackle of automatic weapons fire erupted from the far end of the boathouse, punctuated by the single boom of a high-powered rifle. Castillo turned to look at Pete, who was watching the action intently. “Let’s move up a bit,” the senior marshal said without taking his eyes off what was going on. “Angle toward the far side over there. When ol’ Miguel runs, he’s gonna go that way.”

The rifle boomed again, then a third time. The chatter on the radio started to change, tracking the evacuation of the wounded deputy and the team’s positioning for a final assault. Castillo nodded at their communications discipline. A fourth shot boomed out, and then the Western drawl came on the radio again. “No more shooters.”

“You heard ‘em, boys. Move in and sweep up this mess.” Pete turned to Castillo with an impish grin. “Let’s go see what’s left.”

“Team One has the primary target. Movin’ toward the gap you left.”

Castillo checked his big Model 29. “I want him.”

“You got him.” Pete keyed the mic. “All deputies. Lieutenant Castillo is comin’ down to get the primary target. Don’t let him break the perimeter.”

Castillo moved through the boathouse like a ghost, dodging scattered boat engine parts and stepping around the occasional pool of blood. In less than a minute he was at the far corner, moving through the side door and into the open space between the structure and a narrow dock running out into the water. He could see a slender man standing about ten feet down the dock, looking in both directions and seeing only squad cars and sunglasses. Sunlight glinted off a pistol in his right hand.

“Drop the weapon!” Even as he said the words, Castillo knew they were pointless. Miguel Mendoza simply wasn’t that kind of man.

“And why would I do that, lieutenant?”

“It’s over, Miguel. We have Esteban Morales. Enrique is dead. Holly Miller is under arrest for money laundering charges along with Tiffy Franklin. Your men are either dead or in custody. There’s nothing left.”

“Oh, but you’re wrong, lieutenant. The most important thing is left.”

He watched Miguel turn, and saw the big Government .45 in his hand. “That’s your grandfather’s pistol.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes. It has some history, you know. Just like our family does. And that’s what’s left. The family name. It was never about the money. Not really.”

The Smith & Wesson Model 29 was heavy in his hands, but Castillo didn’t let the big revolver shift even a fraction of an inch. “That pistol betrayed you. The FBI had bullets from an unsolved murder in the 1920s. It connected that weapon to Jaime, the Haitian, Cristobal Santos, and the others you killed. It got us one of the warrants.”

“I see. Still, I can’t just give up. Mendozas are fighters, you know.” A thin smile played across his narrow face. “We always have been.”

“I understand.”

“Yes, expect you do.” There was a pause. “You’re Cuban, right? You and Esteban are quite similar. Creatures of duty to the very end. And driven by honor. Your honor, not something someone gave to you or forced on you. So you do understand.”

“Drop the weapon!”

“I just can’t do that.” Miguel smiled again and stared raising the Colt.

Castillo’s finger tightened on the trigger, but he didn’t pull until the big auto-loader was almost at shoulder level. The Magnum boomed, and the impact of the big hollow point spun Miguel to the side and left his right shoulder a mess of torn flesh and bone. Grunting, he reached down and snatched up the Colt with his left hand. He got off one shot before Castillo put the second round in the center of his chest.

“He didn’t give you a damned choice.” Pete stepped up and looked down at the body. “Hell of a thing, but I get where he’s comin’ from.”

“The family name.” Castillo let the big pistol fall to his side, smoke trailing from the long barrel. “He built it back up, and decided he wasn’t going to tear it down by surrendering.”

“Yeah. Legacy and all that shit.” Pete stuffed his own pistol into his holster. “One brother scatters his shit over a half-mile of water, and the other pulls ‘suicide by cop.’ All for some damned legacy. A legacy no one’s gonna remember in two weeks. Maybe less by the time we shut down their damned uncle and his charter fleet.” He clapped Castillo on the shoulder. “Let’s get the hell out of here and let the bosses gloat about their damned victory.”

Castillo nodded, still staring down at the torn body. “No one won here.”

“No one ever does, Marty. We just go on doin’ our job.”

“Yes.” He nodded. Of all the Federal officers he’d worked with, Pete Washington was one of the few who truly understood the Job. “And they’ll be happy there isn’t going to be a trial. The brothers knew where quite a few bodies were buried. Lots of politicians and a few cops wouldn’t have survived the dog and pony show.”

They were almost to the end of the dock when the unmarked car pulled up.  Castillo didn’t know the man who opened the front passenger door, but he recognized the type. Plainclothes guard for a bigger fish. It was confirmed when the man practically bounded to the back door and opened it for one of the deputy chiefs. Carstairs. A pasty man with the look of a central casting undertaker, he’d made his name in Internal Affairs before spending a couple of months in Homicide and then jumping into a deputy chief spot. As far as Castillo knew the man had never worked an actual case in his life.

“Castillo.” Carstairs’ voice was deeper than his thin frame suggested, and he wore dark glasses against the glare of the afternoon sun. He nodded in Pete’s direction. “This one of your detectives?”

“Try Chief Deputy U.S. Marshal Pete Washington.” The ‘jackass’ tacked on the end of the sentence was unspoken, but you could hear it in Pete’s slow Cracker sheriff drawl as he shifted to reveal the simple U.S. Marshal star clipped to his belt. “Head of the Miami field office. Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doin’ cluttering up my incident scene?”

Castillo smothered a grin as Carstairs flinched. “So, should I assume this is a Federal case, then?”

“Assume whatever the hell makes you happy, chief. Just stay out of the way and let my people do their jobs.” He waved toward the entry team, still wearing their black assault vests as they led a short line of handcuffed men toward a waiting van. “I expect you’ll get those boys in a couple of hours or so. We just want to run ‘em for Federal warrants. Same for the prick Castillo’s guy grabbed at the roadblock.”

“And Miguel Mendoza?”

“Dead.” Castillo looked down the dock. “He refused to surrender, and continued to resist after being wounded. He’s down there if you’d like to see for yourself.”

“So you just gunned him down. Is that it?”

Pete chuckled. “No. He ordered the man to surrender, He refused to obey a lawful command and continued to brandish his weapon. The lieutenant gave a second lawful command, which was ignored. Then he shot, but only to wound. The suspect retrieved his weapon with his uninjured, non-dominant arm and fired at least once before the lieutenant fired a second time. I’d say it was a clean shoot.”

Carstairs stood slack-jawed at the sudden change in Pete’s voice and demeanor. “So he’s dead?”

“Yep. Afraid you don’t get your perp walk photo op this time, chief. Better luck next time.”

Castillo had turned away before Carstairs spoke. He wanted to get back to his team. Or what was left of his team. He could see Switek up near the road, bringing the Bug Van down to pick up the others. Trudy and Gina, he knew, were up by the road as well, manning the second containment point in case anyone tried running south while Switek watched the north.

As if anticipating him, the radio crackled. “Lieutenant? You want us to come in?”

“Yes.” He recognized Trudy’s voice even with the static. “Switek will pick you up. We’ll let the marshals wrap things up here.” Then he turned back to Carstairs. “My team will be at OCB if you need us. As the Chief Deputy said, this is their scene. We’d just be in the way.”

 

Two Weeks Later - May 1990

 

“Hell of a view, ain’t it?”

Martin Castillo nodded as he took off his sunglasses. They were on the tenth floor of one of the newer skyscrapers popping up across Miami, standing in one of the suite’s offices looking back out over the glittering city. “Is this seized property?”

Pete Washington laughed as he shook his head. “Naw, but it sure could be. But I’ve got something else in mind for it. Look, you said your unit was running light, right?”

“Yes.” He thought back to the pressure he’d gotten from the chief’s office on down to replace Crockett and Tubbs. Calabrese, too. Some days light, others unrelenting. But never going away, especially since they’d broken up the Mendoza cartel. “No one’s been a good fit.”

“Oh, I get that. But look. You got good folks now. An’ I need someone who knows the lay of the land. My people are damned good at their jobs. Best in the business, if I can brag on ‘em.”

Castillo nodded. And he didn’t think Pete was bragging. His marshals were some of the best Castillo had ever seen.

“But they need local help. Guys and girls who know who the bad guys are. And we need a new way to fight these bastards.” Pete took a step closer to the window, looking down. “Those bastards down there don’t play by the rules. So we need to rewrite the book.” There was another pause. “I’ll lay it out for you, Marty. I got approval from DC for something they’re calling a joint task force. For us it’s just the Task Force. I sold the damned thing as cooperation between my office and elements of Metro-Dade, but at the end of the day it means your people get help from my people, Federal badges and top cover, and we get to run operations our way.”

“I see.” And he did…as far as it went. Castillo had worked with Feds before. Had been a Fed before. There was always a catch. That moment when the music stopped and you were left standing alone in the room.

“I know what you’re thinkin’, hoss. Hell, I’d be thinkin’ the same thing.” Pete grinned, slipping into his Cracker sheriff act with practiced ease. “You’re thinkin’ this smooth-talking Fed is gonna get what he wants and leave me standing with my pecker in my hand at the end of it.”

Castillo had to smile. “Something like that.”

“Well, I’ll be standin’ there with you, then. My name’s on this one all the way. But here’s the thing: you report to me, I report to DC, and we work directly with the AUSA on cases. Cases WE say yes or no to. We ain’t gettin’ stuff the FBI doesn’t want. And no hooker dragnets from the mayor. No sir. Not on my damned watch. We pick our cases, or develop them if we find something. And then we follow them to the Goddamned end.” He grinned. “That was another part of the sales pitch. Corruption. You an’ I both know these bastards can buy damned near anything they want.”

“Except us.”

Pete clapped his hands and pointed at Castillo. “Exactly. You got a rep in DC, Marty. So do I. Pains in the ass, but honest as the year is long.” There was a pause again. “You pick your team. I’ll send you some people, but if you don’t like ‘em you can send ‘em back. No harm, no foul. The Task Force is gonna be small and fast. I know your one girl’s happy where she is, and that’s good. But I got one question. You think you can get those two cowboys you had back?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation. “For a unit like this, yes.”

“Good. I can pull some strings with your brass. Or more to the point, the AUSA can.” Pete laughed again. “And you can bet those old boys ain’t gonna argue if the hand of the Government God comes in and smacks ‘em around a bit. Hell, some of ‘em might actually like it.”

Castillo nodded, letting the idea work its way through his head. He’d lost track of the number of times his teams had been forced to stand down. And not just in Miami. Laos thrust itself into his thoughts, blocking out everything else. It had started there, high in the mountains when some CIA officers had been protecting heroin moving along the trails ambushed by his team. He’d hit them when he could, but in the end all it had done was get his team killed.

“Regrets? I got a few of those myself. Hell, I got a whole closet full of ‘em. Keeps me up some nights until I remember what’s done is done. Life ain’t got no rewind. But it does have a sneaky-ass fast forward. Kicks in when you spend too much time lookin’ back.”

He felt his face twitch into a smile. “So you propose to look forward.”

“Yeah. We’re both long in the tooth for this game, Marty. Been doin’ it a few years too many, maybe. I don’t pretend to know. But I do know what it takes to make a difference, and I think we got a chance to do that. Hell of a way to close out a career, don’t you think?”

He stood, looking out the window at the city he’d come to love and hate in the same moment. Thinking back to all the times he’d wished for what Pete had just described. “We could make a real difference. Maybe not in the long term, but it would buy others time to make those changes.”

“Or not. Not our game, partner. I learned that back working the Civil Rights marches. But I also learned it can feel damned good just doin’ what you can and, like you said, buying time for others. If they use it or not ain’t the issue. At least we got it for them.”

“I’m in. I’ll need to talk to my people. I know Calabrese won’t want to leave her new position, but I expect Joplin and Switek will want to be part of it. I might need another person to help Switek with surveillance, and then there’s Crockett and Tubbs.”

“You’ll have whoever you want. Once you’ve got ‘em hooked, get me their names and it’ll happen. Even your two cowboys. The whole team will be deputized as special Deputy Marshals so no one here can fuck with ‘em. And I can send you some of my folks if that ain’t enough. People I trust.”

Castillo nodded, still looking out the window. The city has no idea what’s coming. Maybe that’s for the best.

“One thing I can say. It’s gonna be a hell of ride.”

Castillo turned and smiled. Really smiled. “You’re right about that, chief deputy. And God help some of those people out there. Because no one else will.”