I said, “He’s trying to kill my friends.”
“Good fuckin’ morning, Sean O’Brien.”
Dave asked, “Nick, can you see around the piling? Toward Jackson Marine, maybe the rooftop.”
“Hell yeah I can see. Looks like some dude’s lying down on his belly, on the roof, right above the A in the word marine.”
I saw the red laser dot move slowly across Jupiter’s cockpit. I gestured to Dave, and he nodded, his eyes following the tiny red circle. “Dave, watch the dot. I’ll have to get off a shot from Jupiter, and it’s bobbing in the tide, with the current and wind.” I chambered a round, took off the safety.
Dave said, “The dot is starboard, moving very slowly.”
I dropped the sling and felt the stitches tug in my shoulder. I stepped to port side, braced the rifle against Jupiter’s bulkhead and brought the scope up to my eye. I found him in seconds. Recognized the baseball cap. It was turned backward so the shooter could see through his scope.
Dave shouted, “Can’t see the laser dot! He could be sighted down on you.”
I said nothing. Through the scope, I watched the shooter’s body language change. He spotted me, his movements quick. I figured I had maybe three seconds to get a shot off before he did.
One-thousand-one. I felt Jupiter rise a half inch in a small swell.
One-thousand-two. I lowered the crosshairs to correct for the boat’s movement.
One thousand-three. The laser burst through my scope as I squeezed the trigger.
The New York Yankees hat popped in the air propelled by a cloud of pink mist. The shooter fell dead.
“You got him!” shouted Nick. He pulled himself out of the tannin water.
“It’s clear,” I said.
Elizabeth came up from below deck, holding Max in her arms. “Are you all right?” she asked, her voice a mix between anger and compassion.
“We’re okay,” I said, setting the rifle down.
“I heard Nick, did you… did you kill him?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Will they keep coming, Sean? Tell me. How can we live like this? How can we look over our shoulders for the rest of our lives?”
NINETY-SIX
For more than two hours, Nick, Elizabeth, Dave and I were questioned — questioned separately by five agencies. The hit parade of initials began with the FBI and ended with ICE, somewhere in between, we met the DEA, FLDE, a representative from the Justice Department, and two from Homeland Security. Toss in Detective Sandberg from Marion County, two investigators from Volusia County, and we had a who’s who from international, national, regional and local law enforcement.
As Detective Sandberg was leaving, I asked, “Any word on Frank Soto?”
He blew out a long breath and said, “He either was vaporized when that Navy fighter jet dropped the bomb, or he disappeared. We found nothing.” His eyes opened wider, glancing at Elizabeth for a second, and now taking in the full measure of what I’d done to the trigger man. “I’d like to tell you to take it easy, but I guess that’s not possible, not anymore. Be careful, O’Brien.”
When most of them left, and after the ME had picked up the body from the Jackson Marine rooftop, Agents Tim Jenkins and Dan Keyes stood in Gibraltar’s salon. Dave sat at his bar, Nick and Elizabeth on the couch, and me sitting on a deck chair with Max in my lap. Agent Jenkins from ICE said, “You got lucky this time, Mr. O’Brien. If there’s one resource that’s infinite in Pablo Gonzales’ arsenal, it’s his manpower. You took out one. He’s got many more to take his place. How long can you keep firing lucky shots?”
Dave stood. “Perhaps your energies would be better served following the GPS tracking lead that Sean left for you.”
Keyes said, “That’s where Agent Flores and another two dozen agents from the FBI, ICE and locals have converged in the Tampa Bay area. They’ve been on a loose stake-out since we lost the signal from the tracker. We’re watching a former banana packing warehouse in the Ybor City area of Tampa.”
I asked, “Why do they think Izzy Gonzales’ body is there?”
ICE Agent Jenkins said, “That’s the general area where satellite tracking ended.” He displayed a GPS grid on the screen of his cell phone. It was a satellite shot of the warehouse. “We think the body might be in there. There’s a refrigerated truck backed up to a door, and there are two black Mercedes in an alley leading to the back door. For the last hour, we’ve had it staked. If we’re really lucky, we’ll find Uncle Pablo.”
I said, “Dave, pull it up online.”
Dave leaned over his computer, entered the password and username. In a few seconds the screen filled with black. “Looks like the tracker is still out of commission,” Dave said, shifting his weight in the chair. “Wait a minute… I’m getting a signal.” We could see the pulse of a white light blinking. There was no movement of the tracker.
Jenkins turned to Keyes and said, “Let’s drive over to Tampa Bay.”
“Hold up,” I said. “Dave, see if the city has surveillance cameras in that area?”
“Give me a minute to access and cross-check grids.”
The two agents said nothing, eyes fixed on the computer screen.
“Got it,” Dave said, the screen filling with a live video feed of the warehouse. “There are two cameras in the area, and we can take a peek.” Dave tapped his keyboard and cut from the front of the building, near the city streets, to the rear of the building, an alley and back parking lot in the foreground. The warehouse, two Mercedes parked next to a closed door, stood in the background.
Agent Keyes said, “I can see two of the men on the eastern perimeter. Can you punch up the shot from the front of the building?”
Dave nodded. “I can pull them both up, do a split screen.” He hit three keys. The left side of the screen filled with the building’s front, the right displayed the rear.
Agent Jenkins pointed to the left section of the screen. There were two white vans parked along the street. “Some of our teams are in the vans. We have snipers on an adjacent roof, the Chiquita warehouse. A chopper is on stand-by in the event Gonzales somehow gets through our dragnet.”
“Did anyone actually see Gonzales enter the warehouse?” I asked.
“No,” said Jenkins.
“Which means you didn’t have a tail following whatever vehicle transported the body to what I assume is a refrigerated warehouse,” I said.
“Correct,” Jenkins said, “the signal from the tracker was intermediate at best for a while.” His eyes moved from the computer monitor up to me.
“So nothing’s moved in the last hour?” Dave asked.
Agent Keyes said, “Not since our team got there.”
“It’s moving now,” I said as the pulsating dot began a slow circular movement from inside the warehouse.
NINETY-SEVEN
Dave’s cell rang. He mumbled a greeting, stood and stepped out to Gibraltar’s cockpit to talk with the caller. I studied the computer screen as the federal agents sent text messages, and made phone calls, their eyes shifting from the computer to the tiny screens in their hands.
Dave returned and took his seat in front of the computer.
“They’re going in,” said Agent Keyes, looking up from his iPhone.
“Stop them!” I said.
“Why?” asked Agent Keyes.
“Because your men are walking into a trap.”
“What? We have the warehouse surrounded. We can put five thousand rounds in that building in a matter of minutes.”
“What do you see, Sean?” Dave asked.