“They also split.”
“But intelligence says coke’s still coming through.”
Ralph grabbed a canteen off his belt. “We’ve had to start making their deliveries ourselves. I’m telling you, it’s getting exhausting.”
One of the other rebels raised a hand. “I want to go home.”
Henry tossed his parachute aside in disgust. “Typical government operation.”
A droning sound from above. They looked up.
Ralph raised night-vision goggles and peered through a break in the trees. “I don’t see any tail markings.”
“It’s okay,” said Henry. “That’s our plane. It’s circling around again for the supply-and-ammo drop.”
“Covertly beefing up the revolution so the generals can seek military aid?”
Henry nodded.
Minutes later, large pallets of food and weapons floated down on giant parachutes and crashed through the trees.
“At least there’s a silver lining,” said Ralph. “We’re sick of eating Spam.”
He started toward the boxes. Henry grabbed him from behind.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ralph.
Henry pointed skyward. Another drone from above. “Our plane again.”
“Thanks,” said Ralph. “Don’t want me to get hit by more pallets.”
“That’s not it,” said Henry.
“Why are you crouching down?” asked Ralph.
Boom.
A flaming explosion in the trees.
Everyone hit the ground.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
More trees ablaze.
Ralph turned his face sideways in the dirt toward Henry. “That’s naplam!” He looked up at all the just- dropped pallets, engulfed in flames. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Blowing up the rebels’ supplies,” said Henry. “We have to disrupt their supply lines.”
“They’re hitting a little too close for comfort.”
“Don’t worry. They have our coordinates,” said Henry. “Just a symbolic strike so the generals can show the people they’re taking a strong hand to the revolution. They’re supposed to miss the camp.”
Boom.
A cluster of pup tents exploded in fire.
“They just hit the camp,” said Ralph.
“They missed.”
Ralph jumped up, yelling at his brigade. “Get that fire out before it reaches the ammunition.”
The drone of airplane engines grew louder again.
“He’s circling back!” yelled Ralph, hitting the ground again. “He’s making another strike!”
Henry remained standing. Another wave of pallets floated down and crashed through the trees.
“More supplies?” said Ralph.
“For the rebel counter-offensive.”
Chapter Eleven
Downtown Miami
Rusty trawlers and cargo boats sailed along the Miami River. Some going fishing, others destined for Hispaniola with crates of merchandise from Sam’s Club to restock the bodegas.
On the southern shore of the river sat a mixed collection of warehouses, mechanics shops, and low-rent office buildings.
One of the buildings backed up to a marine repair yard surrounded by barbed wire. Stark concrete, tattered awnings, gravel parking lot, no outward hints of what might be happening inside. It had opened on Pearl Harbor Day. Occupancy hadn’t topped 20 percent since 1967. It was about location.
Two stories, but the elevator was broken. A hallway ran down the middle of each floor, rows of offices on both sides. Windows facing the hall, shades drawn. In the middle of each door, another window with gold lettering. Most of the letters had chipped away, but some of the outlines remained. Bail bond, travel agency, title insurance, attorney-at-law.
The last door on the second story was the exception. Fresh gold letters:
M AHONEY amp; A SSOCIATES, P RIVATE I NVESTIGATIONS
Mahoney sat inside. The only associate was the fifth of rye residing in his bottom desk drawer.
The bottle currently rested atop the desk blotter, next to a rocks glass with two fingers of amber reinforcement. Next to a pair of crossed feet propped up by the black rotary phone. The sole of his right shoe was worn through. Adlai Stevenson.
The phone rang. Mahoney stared at it cynically. “Some boozy broad in a tight sweater with a weakness for the ponies?”
He answered on the sixth ring.
“Mahoney and Associates. Discreet investigations. Mumble to me… No, I don’t need a free air-vent inspection for mold that could make me constantly tired.” He slammed the phone down. “Shyster.”
Since his fishing sabbatical in the Keys-and early retirement from Florida law enforcement-former agent Mahoney had returned to the mainland and set up shop with his dream job.
Unfortunately, it remained a dream. Two months, not a single case.
But if Mahoney wasn’t making a living, at least he was living the life. An antique hat rack stood in the corner, topped with a lone, rumpled fedora. The desk chair creaked as he leaned back and propped his feet again, a wooden matchstick wiggling between his teeth. His necktie had a pattern of Route 66 signs. He opened a dime paperback to a dog-eared page.
Heavy footsteps approached from the stairwell at the end of the hall. Mahoney’s eyes rose from the book. The toothpick stopped wiggling.
Footsteps grew louder. Mahoney’s right hand silently slid open the top desk drawer, revealing a snub-nose. 38 Police Special.
The brass doorknob jiggled.
The snub-nose cocked.
The door opened. Serge spread his arms. “Brother!”
A corner of Mahoney’s mouth curled up in a rare smile. He slipped the gun back in the drawer and came out from behind the desk for a backslapping hug.
Coleman pointed at the bottle. “Can I have a drink?”
Mahoney produced another dirty glass. “Knock yourself out.”
“He will,” said Serge, grabbing a wooden chair from the wall and scooting it forward. “How’s business?”
Mahoney went back and took his own seat. “Like selling turds to Roto-Rooter.”
“Can’t be that bad.”
“Stinkaroo.”
Serge looked back at the door and gold letters in reverse. “What about your associates?”
“That’s show business.”
“Then can I be an associate?”
