Scarcity (Jack Randall #3) (5 page)

Jimmy checked his watch before returning his gaze out the windows. She was sitting on the edge of the pool with her long tan legs in the water. The kids were splashing water and getting her wet. She didn’t give it a second thought and played along with them.

“I’ll be there.”

“Okay.”

Jimmy sighed before setting his just-opened beer down on the counter and walking to the window. She soon saw him there and rose to walk around the pool. Before she reached it, she knew. He opened the door for her before moving to where he could see the dog.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“I understand. He won’t though.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

“No, I’ll do it. Cody knows what work is, he sees me leave every day. He just doesn’t understand how it works all the time. He’s too caught up in the party right now. I’ll tell him later when he notices you’re gone.” She rose up on her toes and wrapped her arms around him for a long kiss. He returned it with all he had. She just smiled that smile he couldn’t resist before turning to resume her spot with the kids. They never said good-bye. It was something they seemed afraid to do.

The dog watched him leave, but instinctively knowing he wasn’t going, he made no move to follow. Jimmy walked through the modest Florida home and retrieved his bag from the bedroom. After adding a few items from the bathroom, and one from under the bed, he left quietly through the front door. Once outside he could again hear the shouts of the playing children. He drove it from his mind long enough to get into the six-year-old Chevy he was driving today.

Twenty minutes later he pulled into a parking garage for long-term vehicle storage. In the back corner he parked the older car next to a new Mercedes AMG. He quickly had the bag swapped into the new car and, popping the trunk, he produced a fresh set of clothes in a higher price range. Once the clothes and shoes were swapped out, he returned to the driver’s seat and dug into the glove box. Here he found another wallet that he transferred what cash he had on him into. Pocketing it, he then pulled a newer Rolex out and secured it on his wrist. The last item was hidden in a secret panel in the door, and after triggering the hidden switch, he pulled the black Sig Sauer automatic free. He had just verified that it was loaded and stuck it back in its hiding spot when a black Porsche pulled in next to him. He thumbed the door locks open and waited.

Manuel leaped from the Porsche, wearing a high end casual suit and deck shoes. His hair contained enough gel to hold his curls in place and Jimmy’s sharp eyes could see a lipstick smear on his collar. He was fifteen years junior to Jimmy, young, fit, good looking, and thus far the only partner Jimmy had ever worked with that he liked. While still a little cocky and too sure of himself, Manuel was wise enough to see that Jimmy was the only man over forty in their line of work who was still alive. Jimmy also had the respect of the bosses, which was a rare thing. In the last two years that they had worked together, Manuel had learned a great deal, while also developing a healthy respect for Jimmy and his abilities.

He jumped into the passenger seat and tossed a bag into the back seat as Jimmy put the car in gear.

“Got your ID?”

“Yeah, my newest one. Let me adjust this before we go.”

Jimmy waited while Manuel tightened the strap on his ankle holster. Only when he was through and they both had their seatbelts on did he pull the car out of the garage.

“Where we headed?”

“North, up the east coast, Baltimore or DC. I’m not sure yet.”

Jimmy turned the car in the desired direction and headed for the highway.

“What’s the job?”

Manuel tilted his head forward to look at Jimmy over his expensive sunglasses.

“You’re not going to like it.”

Jimmy said nothing and gripped the wheel tightly with both hands, the blood leaving them made the multiple scars stand out.

•      •      •

Lenny Hill had been a cop since he was five years old. At least that’s when he remembered getting his first badge and gun. A gift from his father, he had worn it for weeks, roaming the neighborhood, arresting his friends and the occasional dog, writing tickets on a notepad and issuing them to neighbors as they drove down their suburban street, and chasing down his friends and having shoot-outs till they were all dead. Born into a family of policemen, he had sat quietly and listened to them talk of investigations and captures, stakeouts and chases, even the occasional shooting. It was no surprise to anyone when he graduated college with a criminal justice degree and applied for the Detroit City Police. A year with the SWAT team and a few more of hard experience followed. Somehow he found the time to complete a master’s degree and with his father’s encouragement applied for the FBI. Excelling in languages, he soon found himself stationed in the Miami office and working with other government agencies in all types of investigations. A natural diplomat, Lenny was often called upon to negotiate with foreign police forces when their help was needed on a particular case. His linguistic skills expanded to include Spanish, French and German, and he soon caught the interest of Interpol. With some pressure from above, he accepted the position of liaison with the international organization, which ironically involved a move of only a few blocks. That was several years ago and he had worn out four passports since. But the job was never boring for long, just sometimes inconvenient.

“Why does this crap always have to happen at night?” Lenny asked himself.

Even as he grumbled, he knew it wasn’t true. The late night calls just seemed to stick in his memory more. He could also argue that the later the call came, the bigger the headache that came with it. Most of his colleagues would readily agree. He was into his twenty-second year as a cop and it was definitely showing. His once dark hair was now peppered with streaks of gray, and the stubble on his face had long since matched. Despite regular trips to the gym, his muscular frame was now showing the beginnings of a spare tire. The scars had weathered a little from the years, but still served to remind others of his days on the force. Despite the damage, he retained the weathered-yet-rugged look that suburban moms found enticingly attractive. Something he would have been surprised to know if he ever took the time to meet one. Work as an Interpol agent just didn’t leave much spare time, and after a failed marriage, Lenny had accepted the truth—he was married to his job.

He now gazed through the glass at the man seated alone on the other side. He was the reason he had been awakened at home by both his pager and phone going off simultaneously. That was over three hours ago and Lenny was now on his third cup of coffee. The file he held was thick and still warm from the printer. He had taken all the time he needed to review it carefully while the Marshals, state, and local cops had watched him impatiently from across the room. What they were in such a hurry for, he didn’t know. Was he supposed to burst into the room and run a good-cop-bad-cop approach or something? He’d ignored them while he took careful notes on a legal pad. A cigarette burned on the desk next to him despite all the no-smoking signs. It was three in the morning and they had called him, not the other way around. Besides, the man in the interrogation room wasn’t going anywhere, at least not soon.

He now took careful stock of the prisoner. The file he had in his hand wasn’t entirely new reading to him. He had read it once or twice before. Unfortunately, there were several of its kind and the review was necessary before he spoke with the man.

Angel Sanchez was one of the higher-ups in the Cali cartel. Born in California to illegal immigrants, he was first arrested at the age of fourteen for drug possession with intent to distribute. Getting the usual slap on the wrist three more times before finally serving some time, he eventually graduated to smuggling. Low on education but very street-smart, he was soon moving more product across the border than most men twice his age. Recognizing early that greed is what doomed most of his fellow smugglers, he spread his money around, buying protection and information. When the Mexican Army joined the fight, he was pulled out of the trenches by Oscar Hernandez, head of the Cali drug cartel. He was elevated to chief negotiator with the Mexican gangs that moved product across the border. He also developed the many new methods the DEA had discovered the cartel using over the last couple of years. Tunnels. Cruise ship employees. Submarines, even. The man had a capable mind, which also meant he had to know the depth of his problem right now. Lenny watched him closely. Angel sat quietly without fidgeting. No drum of his fingers on the table or tapping foot under it. The cast on his lower leg was apparent, sticking out of the oversize prison jumpsuit. He had reportedly refused any pain killers after the leg was set. He didn’t gaze around the room at the bare walls or stare into the mirror with his tough-guy look as the ignorant gang members often tried. He was simply waiting, Lenny decided, for him.

“Said nothing to nobody huh?”

“Not a word, not even to ask for his lawyer.”

“Camera running?”

“Yup.”

Lenny took a healthy swig of his coffee before opening the door and walking in. He shut it behind him and nodded at the prisoner as he sat down.

“Hello, Angel.”

Angel took his time sizing Lenny up. Even bending down to see what kind of shoes he was wearing. Evidently Lenny passed whatever test he was being subjected to, as Angel chose to speak.

“Who are you?”

“Lenny.”

“Lenny,” Angel repeated with a smile. “I guess I should say what are you, you don’t work here.”

“Here? No. You could say I work everywhere. Kinda like you.”

“DEA?”

“Interpol.”

Angel swallowed that information and Lenny let him digest it for a minute. He could see the wheels turning. He looked at his watch before turning his wrist to show Angel.

“It’s been six hours since you crash landed. You think Oscar’s worried?”

“Fuck you,” Angel deadpanned.

“Not me. You know who’s gonna get screwed here, and it sure as hell isn’t me. You’ve had a few hours to think about it. I don’t need to explain your options to you, you already know ’em. That’s why you didn’t ask for a lawyer. You’re in the States, so they get you first. After that it’s Mexico and then Columbia. But you and I both know you won’t last that long. Oscar knows what he has to do. Question is, do you?”

Angel broke eye contact and Lenny had his answer. He kept his poker face on until Angel met his gaze again.

“You’ve got that kind of pull?”

“Yeah, I can have a federal prosecutor here within the hour and we can cut the deal. You get retirement in witness protection. A new face probably. Some cash. That’s it. Beats the alternative by a long shot.”

Lenny had the prosecutor sitting outside the door already. The smart ones knew when they were caught. They also knew they were major liabilities for their bosses. Talking down to Angel would just irritate him and really served no purpose. He could already tell that Angel had come to the same logical conclusion that he had. Cutting a deal was the only way that Angel had any hope of living. Even if he were held in solitary, somebody could always be found to get to him. He had to eat. He had to sleep. If he went to jail for any length of time he would quite simply be dead soon after, and he knew it.

Angel stewed for a minute before raising his head to ask a question.

“My wife?”

“Get a new one.”

“My money?”

“Gone.”

Angel stewed some more.

“I have to stay in the States?”

“That’s how it works. the Marshals will take care of all that.”

Some more silence. The people on the other side of the glass held their breath.

“What do you want?”

Lenny smiled. “You know what we want. We want Oscar.”

It was Angel’s turn to smile.

“You already have him.”

Organ Transplant Waiting List Reaches High In U.S.
11 Apr 2008—Medical News Today
 
 

—FOUR—

T
he sun was just beginning to show in the eastern sky when the cars descended on the hospital from every direction. Officers entered every entrance and fanned out down every corridor. The parking garage and doctors’ lot were blocked off by city police, while the Federal Marshals and FBI agents, plus one, entered the main entrance. A bewildered security guard rose from his position behind a desk full of monitors to see multiple badges thrust in his face and a parade of windbreakers bearing the letters of every law enforcement agency he could think of flowing past.

“Critical Care?”

“Fourth floor.” He reflexively pointed.

“How about you take us there?”

“All right.”

The man led them away through the twist and turns of the old building until they reached a bank of elevators. They filled two cars to capacity, leaving two men behind, and rode up in silence.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” the guard asked.

“You’ll know soon enough. Is your hospital chief of staff here yet?”

“I doubt it, but I can call him if . . . .”