Wood's Reef (16 page)

***

The bar was about three-quarters full when Jerry entered. The bartender came over for his order - a shot of tequila and a beer. He needed something to steady his nerves. The shot went down before his butt hit the stool. Deep in thought, trying to figure out how to get a boat, he felt a hand grab his shoulder. He turned and saw a pretty face attached to the hand.

“Now, you take it really easy. You’re going to get off that chair and follow me out of here. I don’t want to have to cuff you in here and cause a scene. Understand?” The sheriff squeezed a little harder. She grabbed his free arm and had it behind his back in a lock before Jerry knew what was going on.

The bar door slammed behind them as the sheriff guided Jerry to the cruiser. “You’re the guy from the other night. I’ve been looking for you.” She spun him around and frisked him, pulling the bundles of cash from his pants. In one swift move, he was cuffed and in the back of the car. “That’s an awful lot of cash to be carrying around.”

“As far as I know, there’s no law against carrying cash. I don’t even know what you’re talking about, I haven’t been around here for a week.”

“We’ll head down to the station. You can go ahead and try to prove that. Until then, I’ll hold onto this cash,” she said as she laid the cash in the front seat.

Doans slumped into the back seat, trying to figure a way out of this mess. There were a handful of people at the bar the other night that could identify him. So she was right — he wasn’t going to be able to get out of that particular fight. Now, his cash in the sheriff’s hands and his freedom in jeopardy, he needed to reformulate his plan. If there was one thing he knew, it was that plans sometimes needed to change in the middle of an operation. As they pulled up to the sheriff’s station, he eyed the thirty foot boat sitting on a trailer, his brain starting to click into gear,

Jules walked him in the side door of the station. Doans knew he needed to avoid being booked. There would be no way out then. “I have some information that you might want to hear.”

“The only information I want to hear out of you is a confession for putting Wood in the hospital, shooting Trufante with the speargun and starting that bar fight the other night.”

“No, you got me all wrong. I’ve got a hot lead on some terrorists.”

He saw the disbelief in her eyes. But he knew even the remote possibility that he had any information, no matter how insignificant, could undo her career if one of the federal bureaus found out she had ignored a potential lead.

“This better be good, or it’ll come back on you.” She led Doans down the hallway. He grinned as they passed the rooms for mug shots and fingerprints. She led him to an interrogation room. “I’ll be right back. Maybe you ought to reflect on what you intend to say. False reports of terrorist threats could land you in trouble with the feds.” Doans was placed into the seat facing the mirror, and handcuffed to a steel loop on the desk for effect. Jules went out to start the mandatory recording equipment and let the prisoner sweat for a few minutes, or maybe as long as it took her to eat dinner. 

Doans was used to this kind of pressure. He knew the sheriff was putting him on ice, and would leave him for a while. The solitude of the interrogation room for an hour or so was sometimes enough to break a prisoner by itself. Doans got as comfortable in his chair as his restraints allowed, closed his eyes, and was asleep in five minutes.

***

“The son of a bitch is still asleep,” Heather said. 

“Must be drugs or something. He didn’t seem under the influence when I brought him in,” the sheriff said. “Make sure the recorder is working. I’m going in.”

Heather checked the equipment and nodded.

Jules strolled into the room and banged her hand against the table, waking Doans. Then she pulled out the vacant chair and sat. “You said you’ve got information. Let’s have it. And it better be good, or you can spend the night in the drunk tank.”

“Now, is that any way to treat the guy that’s going to get you promoted?”

She ignored him. “Start talking.”

“Well, it started like this,” Doans said, his voice raspy. “You know I could really use a drink. You got any Coke?” He laughed. 

The sheriff hit the table with her hand. “You can toy with some, but not me. You have five minutes. Speak. There’s a couple of mean-looking dudes, all inked up, in lockup. They’d love a roommate.”

“Well, you know, there’s a bomb out there. There’s a couple of guys that know where it is and a couple of terrorists looking for it. I kinda got dragged into this mess. I’m just trying to help out here. I’ll admit this may have gotten a little out of hand.” Doans gave his twisted, abridged version.

“Out of hand, is that what you call it? I got a friend of mine in the hospital ‘cause of you, and another guy had a spear sticking out of his leg, never mind about the bar fight. And now there are two terrorists here?”

“Well, things didn’t go quite as I planned. The cash was a down payment on me delivering the bomb to the terrorists. Now, of course, I have no intention of doing that. I was gonna get the FBI, or whatever bureau is in charge now, involved, but thought a little cash wouldn’t hurt. Now, I’m here, so it’s your lucky day.” 

“You’re a freakin’ moron. Tell me where the terrorists are and I’ll get the Feds to pick them up. You think the bomb is out at that island where you crashed? Is that what you were doing out there?”

“That’s where it is. I had to make sure before I went to the authorities.”

“I’m going to put you in custody and see what the Feds want to do.”

Chapter 29

Behzad watched Ibrahim role out his prayer rug and wondered if he should grab a towel from the bathroom and start acting the part. The sun was rising and Ibrahim was on his knees, facing east and chanting the first of the five daily prayers. Behzad had not practiced his religion in years. He had more fear than love for Allah. Like many religions, the masses of Islam did as little as they could, just enough to stay out of God’s dog house. People did their own cost/benefit analysis of how much effort they should put into their practice, and in most cases it wasn’t much. The same was true for Behzad.

“You really should begin your practice again, my friend.” Ibrahim finished and rolled up his rug. He rubbed his knees. Ten minutes was a long time to be kneeling. He’d done the 5 or 6 minutes of compulsory prayers and added in another 5 minutes for a Sunnah, asking the prophet for guidance in their endeavor. 

Behzad had escaped to the bathroom during the prayer. He exited now, toothbrush in his mouth, and shrugged his shoulders, feigning that he could not respond. He went back in and finished his toilette. 

***

The sun was climbing in the sky, reflecting off the water as they headed over the Seven Mile Bridge toward Key West. 

The minivan kept them at a distance from the cab driver, but they chose to speak in hushed tones. “What a glorious bridge to blow up,” Ibrahim said. 

“It would not have the effect worthy of the effort. Have you thought about what we are to do with the bomb?”

“I have some ideas in mind. I think Key West would be the best target. We could obliterate the entire island, erasing the den of iniquity off the face of the world.”

Behzad was reluctant to admit this was a good idea for a symbolic target. With a population of close to 25,000 people, plus tourists, it was an ambitious goal. Many were his friends, though, and their innocence in this made him sad. 

Ibrahim noticed. “They are infidels. All of them. There is one solitary mosque on the entire island. We will visit there today. Maybe the leaders will be sympathetic to our cause. Are you familiar with it?”

“Yes, brother, I know where it is located.” He failed to tell Ibrahim that it was only a few blocks from Duval Street, center of the Key West party scene. He passed it all the time. But like a library, knowing where it was and actually entering were two different things. They crossed bridge after bridge as they made their way closer to the southernmost point in the US. “We should go to your house first. We need to sit down, call some truck rental places, and see if the Imam of the mosque is there.”

Behzad tapped his foot incessantly. Unable to sit still, his paranoia increasing as the numbers on the mile marker numbers decreased towards zero - the end of the road. The ridicule he would face if Ibrahim discovered any more about his lifestyle was not going to be pleasant. In fact, he’d do anything to keep his friend
out
of his house. “Let me have your phone. I can start working on it on the way.”

“I am wary of using a cell phone. The NSA is listening. A land line, they need a warrant to listen to. No, we will wait and use the phone at your house.”

***

They pulled up to the purple house with turquoise trim and paid the driver. Behzad was so worried about Ibrahim that he failed to notice the other van parked across the street. They walked past the overgrown hibiscus lining the walk. Just as Behzad was about to enter the house, he looked up and saw both doors open on the van. Two men jumped out and ran toward the house. He panicked, loosing precious seconds working the key into the lock. Finally the lock turned and the door pushed open. Ibrahim darted in first, and Behzad followed. He started to shut the door when a booted foot blocked its path. Behzad tried to slam the door again, with no luck. The second man kicked the door and both men entered, guns drawn. 

“Behzad, you freaking fag. You disappeared on me. Haven’t answered your phone in days. Someone less trusting than me would start to wonder if we were really friends after all.” The gun still pointed at them, the man waved them toward the kitchen and closed the door. 

“What is the meaning of this? You know these men, Behzad?” Ibrahim lagged behind until he felt the butt of a gun land a blow to his head. He staggered forward into the kitchen.

“Just a misunderstanding, my friend. A small debt.”

“If you think ten grand is small, that’s up to you. Where’s our money?”

Behzad looked at Ibrahim for help. “I have your cash in the car.” Ibrahim came to his rescue.

Behzad breathed a sigh of relief.

The smaller man grabbed him by the elbow and walked him toward the door. “Just play it cool and nobody needs to get hurt.” He put the gun back in the holster clipped to the small of his back. 

Cesar waited until the door closed before he backhanded Behzad across the face. Behzad fell from the chair and curled into a fetal position, trying to protect himself from the steel-toed cowboy boots slamming into his kidneys.

“That is the last time we are going to front you anything. He better have all my money.”

Behzad worked to get to his knees. “He’s got it.”

The door slammed, and this time the Mexican staggered in first. Ibrahim had the gun pointed at his head. “Both of you, against the wall there. Behzad, get off the floor and get his gun.”

Behzad struggled to his feet and took the offered gun from Cesar. Ibrahim motioned both men into chairs.

“Find something to tie them up.”

Behzad thought for a moment and went upstairs. He came back down with two pairs of handcuffs. The locks clicked and the drug dealers were secured to the chairs. 

“I’ll not ask what this is about now,” Ibrahim said. “Allah will want a full explanation at the gates of Paradise. Handcuffs and gangsters? Behzad, old friend, what have you been doing?”

Behzad glanced at the gun in his hand, wondering if this would be a good time to use it, either on himself or Ibrahim. 

He quickly recovered his composure. The adrenaline focused his mind. “We have the guns now. It’s all good. The plan is still on track.”

Ibrahim stuffed a dish rag into the smaller man’s mouth. 

“You think you need to fear Allah, Behzad? It is Cesar who will be coming for you.” Ibrahim forced the second towel into Cesar’s mouth, ending the threat.

Chapter 30

Joe Ward reached for the coffee pot on the sidebar of the breakfast buffet. This was his third cup this morning. He hadn’t slept well last night, and probably wouldn’t until the election was over on Tuesday. The room was a standard-issue hotel conference room, crowded with name-tagged guests. The names on the tags spoke to the cost of the fundraiser. For $1,000 a plate you got a name tag. For $10,000 the candidate was required to know your name.