“The Klan house?”
“Where else?”
“What the hell could be going…”
She looked at him as she grabbed some gear by the desk and headed out the door.
Jimmy followed at a trot.
Daniel Wells had it all mapped out. Alicia would get the kids. Wednesday night he’d grab the truck. He’d park it and get everything ready. Thursday afternoon, maybe two-thirty, or a little later, at the start of rush hour, he’d make his move. A move that would make him part of history as well as create a scene of anarchy never seen before in Miami. By five, he’s a legend and his itch would be scratched. At least for now. There’d be plenty of opportunity in Montana to plan for travel, if necessary. He settled down for his noontime nap with a smile on his face.
Tasker had pulled his Cherokee straight back into the tall grass when the pickup was parked at the house. Sutter had told him over the Nextel that there was no way he could be seen from the road. Sutter knew where he’d pulled in, and he could see the grill of the Cherokee, but someone off the road wouldn’t pick him up. Tasker had pulled his MP5 from the back of the Cherokee and checked his Beretta. If they could get these rednecks to do something stupid they might catch a break.
Over the Nextel, Sutter said, “The F-250 just rolled by real slow with five guys in the back, and none of them hid that they were staring at me.”
“Just give me the word and I’ll roll out.” He quickly raised Camy on the Nextel. “What’s your twenty?”
“Five minutes.” There was a strain in Camy’s voice.
Tasker waited. The wind would blow the sawgrass to one side or the other occasionally, giving him a glimpse of the parking lot and Sutter still safe in his car.
During a period when his vision was blocked, Sutter came over the Nextel. “Bill, they’re in the lot. I’ll beep when I need you.”
Tasker acknowledged him and then raised Camy. “How far?”
She came right back. “We’re on Krome, thirty seconds.”
Tasker said, “Just come in the lot. The truck is here and we need to-” Tasker heard Sutter beep the horn. He let the phone drop and hit the gas. The gold Cherokee roared out of the field like a charging rhino and rolled into the lot over potholes and garbage and obviously surprised the rednecks, who were now in a ring around Sutter’s door. One of them had a shotgun and two had ax handles.
Tasker brought the Cherokee to a screeching halt right next to the surprised men. He popped out of the Cherokee with his MP5 already up. At almost the same time, Camy rolled into the lot and secured the two guys standing near the F-250. Jimmy Lail had his gun up sideways and started yapping, “Five-O, five-O, nobody move.” He looked at the young man closest to him and added, “That mean you, be-autch.”
Tasker focused on the man with the shotgun and said, “Police. Drop the gun.”
The man looked at him with scared eyes.
Tasker yelled, “Now!”
The shotgun clattered to the ground.
Tasker turned his machine gun on the others. “Now the ax handles.”
The two men in their thirties let them fall to the ground with hollow clunks. Their hands wavered and shook in the air. Tasker felt the anger flash through him when he thought about what they had intended to do to his friend with those handles. He checked his emotion before he did something stupid like whack one of them in the face with the butt of his machine gun.
Sutter moved from his car to collect the shotgun and kick the ax handles out of reach. “Damn, this is the new millennium. Who uses ax handles anymore?”
No one answered.
Jimmy Lail moved closer, shoving one of the men. “On the ground, crackers.”
Tasker looked over to Camy, not surprised she had both her subjects already sitting next to the truck with their hands on their heads.
After a minute of surveying the situation, Tasker had all the men together near the truck and his MP5 slung over his shoulder.
“Now, what’s this all about?”
One of the younger men, about twenty-five, said, “We was worried when we saw y’all hanging out down here. We didn’t know what was goin’ on.”
An older man, near fifty, barked, “Dale, shut up. We ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
Tasker smiled. “Mr. Conners?”
The man nodded reluctantly.
“You’re wrong. Looks like you assaulted Officer Sutter here.”
The man didn’t acknowledge him.
Tasker said, “Get up and come over here.” He waited until the man had stood and walked to him, then led him away from the group, now under the watchful eye of Sutter, Jimmy and Camy.
At Sutter’s car, Tasker stopped, turned and said, “This can all go away with a little information.”
The man had a sour look, then said, “What kind of information?”
“I need to find someone.”
“Who?”
“Daniel Wells.”
Conners looked at him, then asked, “Who?”
“Daniel Wells, from Naranja.”
“The handyman?”
“Yeah, I guess you could call him that.”
“Why would I know where he is? I only took my lawn mower to him once to get fixed.”
“He hasn’t been staying at your house?”
“Not unless he’s screwing my wife behind my back.”
“You’re Ed Conners. You’re with the Ku Klux Klan, right?”
“That ain’t against the law. I’m proud to be Ed Conners and to be the head of our klavern.”
“Your what?”
“Local Klan group.”
“These fellas other members?”
“These boys work the different farms up and down my street. They was worried you fellas was crack dealers. We been having a problem. All they wanted to do was scare you off. They ain’t no Klan members. Hell, two of ’ em is Mexican. They couldn’t join if they wanted to.”
Tasker could have kept questioning the man, but there was no point. He wasn’t holding back, and Tasker had someone he wanted to question more. He felt his frustration level rise and took a deep breath to control it.
He started back to the F-250 with Conners. “Okay, you guys can go. Why not just call the cops next time you think someone is dealing dope?”
Conners said, “Yeah, they come right out. Why don’t you go find some real criminals?”
Tasker said, “That’s a good idea.” He stood and watched the men hop into the back of the truck, then waited as the truck rumbled out of the lot back toward the house.
Jimmy Lail said, “What was that all about? I should’ve busted a cap into the air to get those be-autches talkin’.” He pulled out his automatic and, holding it sideways again, pointed into the sawgrass, showing his partners the motion he’d use to fire it. “That woulda made ’ em shit.” He looked at Sutter. “Ain’t that right, my brother?”
Tasker couldn’t take it anymore. He sprang toward Jimmy, knocking his pistol out of his hand, then kneeing him in the leg, and finished by throwing the stunned FBI man to the ground and landing on top of him. He had Jimmy by the shirt, his face two inches from Jimmy’s.
“The word is bitch. B-I-T-C-H. One fucking syllable. Never hold your gun any way except perpendicular to the ground. That’s how they’re intended to be held. I don’t care how many movies you’ve seen, your pistol is not supposed to be held at an angle. Never sideways. You got it?” Spittle flew from his mouth into Jimmy’s face.
Sutter stood up and calmly tried to move Tasker. “C’mon, Bill.”
He stood and looked down at Jimmy Lail, who said, “Bolini is right. You’re an asshole.”
“Bolini? You been talkin’ to him?”
He hesitated, then said, “Yeah, sort of. I mean, I work with him, dipshit.”
Now Sutter stepped in. “Now that sounds like you. Why you trying to talk like a street kid all the time?”
Jimmy didn’t answer.
“Now I’m not on as short a fuse as my man Tasker here, but if you ever use that fake urban bullshit accent around me again, I’m gonna whip your ass.”