Authors: Eric Pete
Frostbite (2 page)
2
After agreeing to get her family into the country from the Philippines, the cleaning lady who called for Sophia provided me with the details I needed. Then I had to offer up another ten thousand to get some rather unique information from her.
In the end, the conclusion was the same.
Sophia was in a world of shit.
So with short notice and scant recon, I’d come to Coral Gables preparing to do something foolish. Things like this usually took twice as long for which to prepare. Can’t say I didn’t like a challenge, but lives could be on the line if I miscalculated this. Including mine.
The sun beamed through the front window of the van as I checked my watch and adjusted my uniform.
“Your country appreciates your cooperation,” I recited all official like a final time before the three of us exited the repair van.
“Yeah, yeah. No problem. We got it. Anything to help bring down terrorists,” the burly
Cubano
in the driver’s seat grunted. It was as if his hardhat were two sizes too small for his head.
Cubano
in the driver’s seat grunted. It was as if his hardhat were two sizes too small for his head.
“Sir, I never said these gentlemen were terrorists. This is only an intelligence gathering mission,” I corrected him. “And we’re trusting you to keep quiet about anything you witness today. But if your bosses give you any grief, just call the number for the State Department on the card I gave you.” In case one of them had called the dummy number with the DC area code already, I’d left a prerecorded message that sounded authentic and mysterious.
“Probably goin’ plant some bugs like on
Mission Impossible,
ain’t ya? Shit, bosses should give us both promotions. Or maybe new black Dodges,” the tall, lanky Haitian kid who was the apprentice joked. I’d been listening to him brag for the last half hour about his test scores in electronics school. And about that same black Dodge Charger he wanted so badly.
Mission Impossible,
ain’t ya? Shit, bosses should give us both promotions. Or maybe new black Dodges,” the tall, lanky Haitian kid who was the apprentice joked. I’d been listening to him brag for the last half hour about his test scores in electronics school. And about that same black Dodge Charger he wanted so badly.
Hated going this route. One thing I never did was pose as a Fed. To do so was to paint a shiny red bull’s-eye on one’s self. There was no time to do this all nice and tidy. I was just lucky my idea of an official badge and ID fooled my newly drafted coworkers. I preferred working through intermediaries like them, but was putting myself directly in harm’s way for Sophia.
Sophia.
A unique relationship in my unusual life I had with her.
But I had to focus on what was before me.
Not the past we may or may not have had.
“Let’s go. I’m sure they’re waiting on us,” I said as I slammed the door on the imprisoned memory of Jason North once again and slid open the door to the van to the light of day.
The three of us—the driver, Alonzo, the kid, Jeff, and I—grabbed our equipment and went on our call for a rush repair order on a satellite TV outage.
Today had to be the day.
That’s why I shut down their satellite feed last night while everyone slept.
Just off Old Dixie Highway and near the University of Miami, we buzzed the front door to the unassuming ceramic-roofed compound shrouded in palm trees. The plaque on the front of the secure facility and the colorful flag flying overhead identified the place as a consulate for one of those tiny Middle Eastern nations. The ones with more money than they have people. And where they import staff from third-world countries to service their needs, no matter how basic or base they might be.
After buzzing in and posing for the camera, the three of us were met by two suited men who looked like they were sumo wrestlers crammed into Hugo Boss tablecloths. They proceeded to inspect our identification badges with intense scrutiny then crosschecked the names against the approved list. After that, we were frisked and patted down. Lucky for me, they were only feeling for something that could be a weapon.
“What took you so long?” one of them asked, chastising us. “The prince is about to throw a fit.”
“Traffic,” Alonzo offered with a shrug. “Is the outage affecting all the TVs?”
“Of course. We almost left for the yacht to catch the Cup, but there are too many people to relocate on such short notice, so hurry up. Please.”
“It will be faster if the three of us split up,” Alonzo commented. “Someone needs to inspect the junction box and satellite’s dish arrays while the rest check the lines and individual receivers. How many TVs do you have in here anyway?”
Our greeter laughed. “More than you can imagine. Go ahead and split up,” he agreed while checking his watch. “But keep your badges displayed. I’ll go check on the prince and give him an update. Important friends of his are here and they’re already placing bets on the game. Going to miss the first pitch. Hopefully, he doesn’t have me beheaded.” From his expression, one couldn’t tell if he was joking about the beheading thing, but ...
“I’ll check the individual units,” I volunteered lazily as we’d already agreed. “Where should I start?”
“The large television in the viewing room where the prince is at,” he replied. “The sooner you can get that one working, the better for all of us.”
“Probably should start with the smaller ones. These are all wired in a series of F switches before they transitioned to the standard safeguards and redundancies. The culprit is usually with the TVs that don’t get much attention,” I said, making up some gibberish and waving my arms like I was a pro. Last thing I wanted was to go anywhere near a crowd.
“Uh ... okay,” he replied. “Well, start with the unoccupied rooms. But stay away from the private quarters or any room that is locked,” he said, trying to size me up. I acted as if one of my eyes was slightly crossed, disturbing him to no end.
I saw the cleaning lady who’d called me the other night. She wore orange to identify herself today. As she walked by the three of us, I began humming an Elvis tune, “Heartbreak Hotel,” for her to identify me. In the open-air center of the compound was a large swimming pool with intricate, mosaic tile patterns, which she navigated past. As I moved steadily along with my clipboard, I saw her stop by a locked door on the second floor balcony where she paused to draw an imaginary “X” across its exterior. Just as she did that, I could hear a cacophony of loud voices shouting in Arabic that echoed off the walls. Probably beginning to complain about our keeping them from the UAFA Arab Nations Cup they were assembled to watch today.
Prince Abdel Al-Bin Sada was a big fan of the world’s version of football. After a massive fight at one of the venues in Dubai last year, he’d been kindly asked through intermediaries in his royal family, in the most polite way possible, to stay away for the next half decade. According to my research, the storied prince’s passion for his country’s national pastime was equally met by his passion for the flesh of women other than his wife.
Seeing the time displayed on my watch, I needed to speed up my inspection and troubleshooting ruse. With rough schematics of the place, I’d told my two role players where to be when service was restored. Coming to the door marked with the magic “X,” I took another glance to make sure no one was nearby. With the security cameras and armed detail inside, they’d become complacent here in this south Florida community of old money.
At the designated time, I began counting down.
Then, just as the satellite service was restored, all gathered downstairs on the opposite side of the compound broke out in raucous cheers and jubilation. And at that moment as the game was on, it
really was on.
Disguised by the festive noises, I put my shoulder into the door and partially busted it open. Grimacing from the pain and scared of there being an alarm, I backed up and swiftly kicked the door where it had been weakened.
really was on.
Disguised by the festive noises, I put my shoulder into the door and partially busted it open. Grimacing from the pain and scared of there being an alarm, I backed up and swiftly kicked the door where it had been weakened.
It did have an alarm.
Shrill and piercing, I tried to block it out as I entered to see seven scared women, all of them beautiful, exotic, and scantily clad, huddled together on the oversized bed.
A modern-day harem for the prince’s pleasure.
And there was
Aswad
in the middle.
Aswad
in the middle.
Aswad. Arabic for black.
Real creative, that prince.
Adrenaline took over. “Hurry! If you want to get out of here, go straight to the back. There’s a boat waiting on the waterway.”
But they were stunned into inactivity. None wanting to be the first to make a move. Or listen to a total stranger posing as a satellite repairman.
“Go! Now! Freedom!” I shouted, this time in shoddy Arabic, to light a fire under them.
Four of them scurried out, briefly making eye contact to thank me, while two remained resolute atop the bed, glaring at me in disgust. Different strokes for different folks I suppose.
Sophia ran into my arms and held me. “Truth,” was all she said. Faintly. Softly. The flowing minimal fabric seemed to almost hover on her body and she smelled of exotic oils. My past sexual partner—and once protégé—awakened disparate emotions that I quickly shoved aside.
“C’mon,” I said as I dropped my hardhat and rapidly led Sophia by the arm. We bounded down the stairs, almost three at a time, until reaching the ground floor and facing the large pool.
“I thought you were in London,” I offered as I yanked her along.
“I was,” Sophia replied. “That’s where I met the prince.”
“Uh huh,” I said, neither approving nor condemning her choices.
“Hey!” my original greeter yelled almost directly across the pool from us. He’d emerged in response to the alarm and wasn’t alone. Three more slabs of meat in suits, probably representing a veritable United Nations, fanned out in a protective pattern from behind him, all going for whatever firearms they carried. At that point, I dumped the remainder of my worker gear and broke into a full-on sprint.
As she struggled to stay on her feet, Sophia protested in my ear. “Why aren’t we taking the waterway out back like you said? You’re going to get us killed!” she screamed.
But there was no escape out back. That was all a diversion that was just now coming into play as the four other kept women were spotted scattering all over the compound in a panic. With some of his people distracted by their sudden appearance, the head of security hollered at us again.
“Stop!” he barked as I could now see the front door in sight.
“You don’t know these people. He’s going to kill us! He’s going to kill us!” Sophia cried as I felt her nails dig into my hand. Her fear was genuine.
“Shut up and strip!” I yelled to her as I took the barest of glimpses at my watch.
“Huh? Are you fuckin’ crazy?”
“Strip. Do it now!” I commanded with an angered, desperate look on my face that told her not to question me. I didn’t like being called crazy.
With each awkward, quickened step, we both began discarding articles of clothing in our wake. Sophia must’ve thought this was some attempt to trip our pursuer up like in the cartoons. If only my gamble were less desperate than that.
With the electronically locked front doors to the compound mere feet away, a bullet rang out just missing my face. It ricocheted off the reinforced metal making both of us skittishly hop in surprise. They figured we were cornered, but probably didn’t want to chance us getting any closer to the street outside ... and American soil.
With the two of us buck naked and back into a full-on sprint, I pushed the button on the only other piece of electronics I had remaining in my possession besides my watch. Praying it was the right frequency, I heard the front doors click with recognition. Had scanned for the proper code when we arrived.
Despite his size, the prince’s head of security was closing on us. And no way in hell did I think he’d politely stop at the door’s edge and let us get away. And with just my birthday suit and Sophia in tow, I wasn’t equipped to wage an unarmed war with a pro.
The hot, humid smell of freedom greeted our noses as Sophia and I rushed out the front and bolted onto the sidewalk.
“What the fuck?” Sophia gasped at the sight that awaited her.
Dozens upon dozens of people stood before us in carefully formed lines in the middle of South Alhambra Circle, others still joining them. Like troops awaiting their general’s instructions.
Men and women.
Mostly brown in skin tone like us, but comprised of all different races and ethnicities with dashes of vanilla thrown in among them.
All matching approximately our heights and builds.
And all nude.
Right as we stepped into the mass of bodies, they began the choreographed routine to Flo Rida’s “Club Can’t Handle Me” that blared from the speakers positioned on the flatbed truck stopped behind them.
The prince’s security emerged onto the sidewalk with guns drawn, but were stunned by what they were witnessing.
“Quick. Follow along and do what everybody else is doing,” I hissed in her ear as we gradually moved to the rear of the hastily assembled flash mob. I’d arranged for them on one of the online social networking sites last night, providing instructions on the time and routine along with a phony cause célèbre for which to bare all.
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