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…
“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.
“Where’s Randall?” yelled Ramirez. “Get him down!”
Agents flattened the witness and formed a pile.
“Where the hell’s that coming from?”
“Over there!” An agent braced behind a Bronco and returned fire toward distant muzzle flashes. “The cane field!”
“Get him in the car!” Ramirez slapped the trunk. “Go!”
The front half of the motorcade sped east into the waning night. The rest of the team remained behind, raking sugarcane with overwhelming firepower.
The convoy reached Twenty Mile Bend, dashboard needles at the century mark. Randall wanted to see outside, but they were sitting on him again. The approaching dawn brightened over Southern Boulevard, where they were joined by helicopters for the final turnpike leg to the federal courthouse in Miami-Dade County. But back then it was just Dade.
They brought Randall through a secure garage gate in back. He entered the courtroom and took the stand next to a jury with less interesting mornings.
Randall Sheets was, as they say, the perfect witness. Steady, confident testimony. Even he was surprised by his grace under pressure.
Indictments came down.
Across south Florida, a series of predawn raids.
The front door of a Spanish stucco house opened. The SWAT team brought Hector, Luis, and Juanita out in handcuffs-“Call the lawyers!”
Same scene at five other locations, two dozen associates in all. Everyone was booked. And bonded out just as quickly by one of Florida’s top law firms. TV crews waited in the street. “
An agent in the Miami FBI office picked up a phone and dialed.
A cell rang somewhere south of Miami. “Hello?” A hand quickly went over it, and the person walked outside. “Are you crazy calling me now?… No, I can’t talk. They’re circling the wagons. Everyone’s under suspicion… What I’m saying is they know you’ve got an informant in the family… How can you say there’s no way?
Another phone rang. Another person answered. “… Yes, I can talk… I see… You think you know who the informant in our family is? Very good, who?… You’ve only narrowed it to two people? That’s not good… I realize it’s a huge risk getting at the files right now. That’s what we pay you for… No, time’s already run out. Haven’t you been watching the news?… Okay, what are the two names?”
THE PRESENT
Four A.M.
Serge’s surveillance had synchronized his watch with the rounds of local police.
The latest squad car rolled toward him. And kept going. Serge jumped from a hedge on the side of A1A.
Pedro was already bound and gagged in his seat. Serge popped open a toolbox. He began loosening hex-head bolts with his largest socket. Some were stuck from the years, needing WD-40 and a hammer banging on the
