“Bullshit on that,” said City.
“Double bullshit,” said Country. “We got enough trouble as it is.”
“But these kids are sheep,” said Serge. “They don’t stand a chance.”
The pair stared and stewed. Finally, City snatched the bong and lighter. “You bastard.”
“That means you’ll help?”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Randall Sheets saw his future disintegrating.
“Turn the other way,” said Agent Ramirez, sitting with him in the back of a speeding sedan.
The agent twisted a tiny key; cuffs popped loose.
Randall rubbed his wrists. “What’s going to happen to me?”
“Better than if we didn’t show up.”
Waves of panic were so strong, Randall felt himself drowning. Then it came from nowhere, an eruption of sobs and babbling. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t know what to do. My wife. The bills. These guys. The briefcase. I’m so sorry!…”
Ramirez gave him a handkerchief. “We know about your wife.”
Randall blew his nose. “You do?”
Ramirez continued facing forward. “So did they. You got played. It’s how they operate. You never had a choice.”
“I didn’t. What would you have done?”
“Same thing. But that’s behind you.”
“It is?”
“You’re going to testify before the grand jury.”
“Not a chance. They’ll kill me for sure.”
“There’s a duffel bag waiting for you in Bimini,” said Ramirez.
“You know about that, too?”
“Weighs the same as the others with coke.”
“Not coke?”
“Bomb.”
“Doesn’t make sense. I’ve got a perfect delivery record, making them a fortune.”
“They change pilots every six months. And not by mutual agreement. That’s why we had to take you in now.”
Randall’s face fell in his hands. “How long have you known?”
“Two days. Finally got an informant, someone on their inside. Been trying to get a pilot for years but, well, you’re the first.”
“Oh my God!” Randall just remembered. “My family!”
“All taken care of. Picked up your wife and son an hour ago.”
That’s what mattered most to Randall, the next less so: “How much prison am I looking at?”
“None. You testify, we put you in the witness program.”
“Where?”
“Won’t be as warm as here.”
“How long do I have to stay?”
“You don’t understand.” Ramirez gazed out the window as a DC-10 touched down at West Palm International. “These people never forget.”
THE PRESENT, MIDNIGHT
Pop.
Country uncapped a wine bottle in the backseat. “Nobody’s left the room for hours. Maybe they’re not there.”
“They’re still there, all right.” Serge leaned toward the windshield of the Challenger, strategically parked face-out in an alley with a full view of the Dunes. “They don’t want to open the door and give away their ambush position in case the kids are on their way back.”
“So why are we waiting over here?”
“Everyone eventually gets hungry.”
Another hour.
“Now I’m hungry,“ said City, stubbing out a roach.”Me, too,” said Country.
“So is someone else.” Serge looked up at the second floor, where a man had quickly slipped out the door of room 24, then pretended he hadn’t. He leaned nonchalantly against the landing’s rail, scanning the parking lot and street. All clear. Cowboy boots trotted down stairs.
The Challenger rolled out of the alley without headlights.
Boots clacked across the street and up the opposite sidewalk.
“You were right,” said Country. “He’s heading for Taco Bell.”
“I’d kill for a taco right now,” said City.
Serge pulled along the curb. “You’re going to get your wish.”
Pedro’s arms were weighed down with bags of grande meals when he finally came out the restaurant’s side door.
A distressed female voice: “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” said City. “We might have to ask a stranger.”
“But that’s dangerous.”
“Excuse me.” Pedro politely bowed his head. “Couldn’t help but overhear. Are you in some kind of trouble?”
“Flat tire,” said Country, reaching in one of his bags for a taco.
“But the lug nuts are too tight.” City reached in another bag. “We’re not strong enough.”
Pedro puffed out his chest. “You beautiful ladies shouldn’t have to change a tire. Especially at night.”
“You’ll help us?” said Country.
“You’d really do something that nice?” said City.
“Of course Pedro will help you. Where’s your car?”
“Right around the corner. Just follow us.”
He did.
They turned the corner.
Pedro dropped his tacos. “Who’s that guy?”
“Oh,” said Country. “You mean the one with the gun?”
Chapter Thirty-Two
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Belle Glade sits near the middle of the state, on the southeast shore of Lake Okeechobee. The horizon low and flat. Cane elds forever. Plumes of dark smoke rose in various directions, some from intentional burns of harvested fields, others out the stacks of sugar-processing plants. Below the town was a prison camp. A yellow crop duster swooped, the one that terrorists with rashes on their hands had tried to hire. To the north, an uninviting, single-row motel with a leaking tar roof on the side of Route 715. Scraggly bushes, termite damage, a cracked office window fixed with masking tape.
The motel was almost always closed, except when the government needed it. Because it owned it.
Currently, no vacancy. Lights on in all eight rooms, but the front sign remained dark. Agents in T-shirts and jeans stood watch outside, pretending to work on a carburetor. They didn’t blend in. People of their sort never put up in the glades unless there’s a bad reason. All locals avoided them, except sheriff’s deputies, who knew something was up during their first stay but couldn’t get to the bottom of it despite hours of questioning in the parking lot. Almost blew the safe house. So feds began bringing tackle boxes and towing bass boats. Near every deputy fished that lake.
In the middle room, Randall Sheets rocked nervously on the edge of a bed. They’d just reeled him back from Detroit for his big day of testimony. A digital clock said five A.M. Ramirez sat facing him. “It’ll all be over in a few hours.”
“Can’t come soon enough.”
“Just remember what we talked about. The prosecutor will guide you through everything. Keep your answers direct and tell the truth. We’ll put them away.”
“I don’t see how my testimony can do that. I think the guys I was dealing with were at the bottom.”
“We have another witness. Management insulates themselves by staying away while the lower rungs get their hands dirty. Between the two of you…”-he interlaced his fingers-“… we connect the whole operation.”
“Will… they be there?”
“Not in the grand jury. Not even their defense attorneys. You have nothing to worry about.”
Three spaced knocks on the door.
An agent standing next to Ramirez-the one with the machine gun-went over and checked out the window. He opened the door.
Six more agents entered. “We’re ready.”
Everyone put on dark windbreakers with hoods. Ramirez handed one to Randall.
“What’s this for?”
“Just put it on.”
“Wait,” said Randall, looking around a room of identically dressed people. “Snipers?”
“Just an abundance of caution. Put it on.”
A string of headlights filled the dark parking lot. Engines running. Vehicles in a perfect line, facing the exit.
Room number 4 opened, and windbreakers ran for the convoy.
Pop, pop, pop. Sparks on the pavement. Pinging against fenders.
“Where’s Randall?” yelled Ramirez. “Get him down!”
Agents flattened the witness and formed a pile.
Pop, pop. Ping, ping.