Standoff, page 2
2
Luke Fereday’s nerves thrummed like high-voltage wires as the wind from the approaching thunderstorm moaned through Windsor Ruins. He’d found the gate to the enclosure unlocked and slipped inside, concealing himself behind one of the twenty-three columns that stood like ghostly sentinels under the harsh overhead lights. The columns were all that remained of the five-story plantation that burned over a century ago.
Earlier in the day another storm had blown through South Mississippi and saturated the ground, leaving the earthy smell of wet leaves. Overhead, Spanish moss hung from live oaks and whipped back and forth in the wind that had taken a cooler turn. He hoped to be away from here before the storm arrived. With a quick tap of his watch, he checked the time. Almost midnight. Sonny was late.
All the things that could go wrong, including his cover being blown, ran through his mind. Even in the chilled air, sweat made his palms slick, and he wiped them on his jeans. It had taken four months to get a meeting with Charley Romero. Four months of baiting his hook by buying five- and ten-thousand-dollar amounts of heroin from Sonny.
Thunder rumbled again, competing with an owl’s lonely hoot. Luke ignored the shiver that raced down his spine and bent to check the backup Ruger in his ankle holster. Meetings like this he always carried two guns—his Glock and the lighter-weight Ruger. Then he stood and scanned the clearing once more.
Lights flashed as a car swung into the drive, followed by more lights. They were arriving in separate vehicles. He took a deep breath and slipped into his role, this time playing himself. Luke Fereday. Made him feel exposed.
Actually it wasn’t the Luke Fereday he was now, but the one who had a reputation for trouble back in his high school days. Never thought that reputation would come in handy.
A minute later a pickup and an SUV rolled into the clearing and parked beside Luke’s Jeep Cherokee. He stepped out of the shadows as a lanky man climbed out of the truck holding an LED lantern. Luke would bet his next paycheck the floral Hawaiian shirt Sonny wore hid a gun tucked in the waistband.
“Hey, my man,” Sonny said. The dealer glanced around. “This place gives me the willies at night.”
Luke shrugged. “You picked it.”
“I know, but it’s still creepy.”
“You’re late,” he said.
“My friends over here had a little business to take care of. I was about to call you when they showed up.”
Sonny was twitchy. And he was talking too much. Luke tensed, shifting his stance to the balls of his feet as the driver climbed from the SUV. The overhead lights gave just enough illumination to make out the man’s features.
The sixth sense honed by years of drug buys kicked in. It was hard to tell his age, but something about the cut of his shoulders and the way he held himself was familiar. Luke had seen him somewhere, maybe even had contact with him, but his photo hadn’t been in any of Luke’s files. What if he’d arrested him before in a drug sting?
Luke’s gaze shifted as another man crawled out from the passenger side. Charley Romero purported to be second in command in an organization that had ties with a South American cartel and stretched from Natchez to New Orleans and eastward into Florida.
Romero was shorter than his bodyguard and might come to Luke’s shoulders. But looks were deceiving, and he knew to treat him like the cottonmouth snakes roaming the woods around him. Very carefully.
He looked closer at the bodyguard, still trying to place him. That was the problem he always faced when he dealt with unknowns. The man could be someone Luke had busted in the past, even in a different part of the country.
“Wasn’t expecting but two of you.” He caught himself before he reached to smooth the full beard that was no longer there. Since he was playing himself, it wasn’t needed, but he sure did miss it, along with the John Deere cap that always shaded his eyes.
“Romero here wanted his friend to tag along,” Sonny said, palming his hands. “It’s all good.”
“Your friend in the shadows. He have a name?” The hard metal of his Glock pressed against the small of Luke’s back, reminding him it was a dangerous game he played.
“Yeah,” Romero said, “but you don’t need to know it.”
Tension crackled in the humid air. The bodyguard moved out of the shadows to join Romero, and Luke planted his feet. The bodyguard stood a good two inches taller than Luke’s six feet. He inched his arm back, ready to grab the Glock in his waistband. Not much room for error. If the deal went south, he’d take out Romero first, then the bodyguard. He nodded to Sonny. “I’m only trusting them because you say they’re okay.”
Romero folded his arms across his chest. “How do we know you’re not a narc?” His voice rose and fell in its thick Cajun accent.
“Hey, Charley, my man,” Sonny said. “Luke here is okay. I know him.”
Luke squared his shoulders and kept his gaze on Romero. “How do I know you won’t rat me out to the law around here?”
A look passed between the bodyguard and Romero, who grinned. “You don’t have to worry about the law.” Romero stared at Luke a minute longer, and then he tipped his head. “I heard you’re looking for some Big H.”
A little of the tension eased from Luke’s body. “And I heard you had some.”
“Maybe. How much you want?”
“A kilo, right?” Sonny said, looking toward Luke.
“Provided the price is right.”
“A kilo will cost you sixty-five Gs,” Romero said.
Luke toed the ground with his ostrich-skin cowboy boots and then raised his head to pin a narrowed gaze on Romero. “Sonny said it was only sixty.”
“Sonny was wrong. You want it or not?”
Luke took his time answering and shifted where he could keep his eye on the bodyguard. He didn’t like the way the man had tilted his head, like he was trying to puzzle something out. Luke needed to end this and get out of here. He brought his attention back to Romero. “Can you make regular deliveries?”
“How regular?”
“Every two weeks?”
“You want a kilo every two weeks?” Romero’s voice inched up a notch at the end.
Luke nodded slowly, and the drug dealer’s face lit up like it was Christmas. “Can you swing it?”
The bodyguard rested his hand on a gun stuck in his waistband. “Where’re you dealing that you can move that much H so fast?”
The man’s Appalachian accent twanged like a note on a steel guitar, setting off warning bells. Luke couldn’t place where he’d met the man before, but he was certain he had. “That, my friend, is none of your business.” He turned to Romero. “Do we have a deal? Sixty Gs?”
The man’s lips twitched, then his shoulders relaxed. “Deal.”
“Take me a couple of days to get the cash. Got any bundles with you so I can show my people the grade?”
Romero snapped his fingers, and the bodyguard produced a bundle of small bags. Luke opened one of the pouches.
“That’s some good stuff, that,” Romero said.
“I’m sure it is.”
The Cajun named a price, and Luke slipped a wad of cash from his front pocket and peeled off several bills.
Romero pocketed the money. “The price on the kilo is good ’til Thursday night. You don’t get the cash by then, we’ll renegotiate.”
“Here? Same time?” Luke asked.
“Sonny will call you with the location.” Romero turned to leave.
“Wait.”
Romero stopped and turned around. “What?”
“I hear you’re running China White up the Trace. I’d like to get in on some of the action.”
“Where you hear that?”
Luke shrugged. “Here and there. What do you say?”
“I say you better stick with what you got, don’t you think?”
“Maybe you want to run that up the ladder? With my connections, I can help you.”
Romero eyed him. “I’ll pass it by the boss, but don’t be holdin’ your breath.”
“I’d like to meet your boss.”
The drug dealer stared at him, his eyes narrow slits. “I’ll run that by him too.”
“Good deal.” Asking about the drugs traveling the Trace had been worth a try. Maybe he should have waited, but at least he’d planted the thought, and he might get a meeting with the top man out of it. Romero turned and walked to the SUV while the bodyguard stood with his feet spread and arms folded, staring Luke down. It would be comical except that one wrong move could start a shooting war.
Sonny saluted Luke, then hopped in his pickup and waited for the SUV to drive out of the clearing before he followed. When the two sets of taillights disappeared around the curve, one going one way and the other in the opposite direction, Luke allowed himself to breathe.
Tonight he didn’t have to worry about the men waiting to waylay him as he left. The roll of money he flashed wasn’t enough to tempt them, but come Thursday, sixty thousand dollars could make it a different story. Depended on whether Justin Boudreaux looked at the long haul. And whether Luke figured out where he’d met the bodyguard before.
3
A waning half-moon cast a ghostly pallor over Emerald Mound. Hidden in the trees across from the ancient site, Kyle Marlar jockeyed for position on the uneven ground. He’d found a sturdy limb to steady his camera, a Canon EOS 6D with a zoom lens. Now he waited. He wasn’t sure for what, other than this was the only lead he had on his son’s murder. And his death definitely was murder.
If only he hadn’t blown Brandon off that weekend he brought the flash drive to him. If he’d taken him seriously, his son would still be alive. But the boy had always made up wild tales—it was hard to know when he was telling the truth. To even think Justin Boudreaux was mixed up in money laundering stretched credibility.
The man was respectable. He owned a chain of grocery stores and had recently bought prime real estate for a store in Natchez. County, city, and state leaders were negotiating with Boudreaux to move his warehouse from New Orleans to Adams County. The superstore coupled with the warehouse would mean at least three hundred jobs for the area. Three hundred desperately needed jobs.
Kyle was the state representative for this district, and it was his responsibility to help bring industry to the area, not throw up a roadblock by bringing a crazy accusation based on his son’s suspicions. Kyle had convinced Brandon that he was misreading the files he’d discovered. He’d even lectured him on hacking into Boudreaux’s computer system.
The boy had been too bright for his own good. Kyle had kept the flash drive, intending to destroy it. Then the next week he got the call from a New Orleans detective that Brandon had overdosed on heroin.
He knew his son, and he would never have used heroin again. That was when Kyle realized the fanciful accounting story had been true and he’d followed the information on the drive to Emerald Mound.
A mosquito bit his neck, and he slapped it as a bank of clouds snuffed out the moon, plunging the area into darkness except for the far-off flashes of lightning. That no thunder followed gave him hope the rain would hold off until after the switch, but he still had to contend with the high humidity. He wiped his camera lens. If there was anything to shoot, he didn’t want the photos blurred. Then he pressed the menu button and double-checked that the time stamp was set.
He jerked his head toward approaching tires. Seconds later, a car pulled into the circular drive that served as a small parking lot, and Kyle checked his watch. Eleven forty. According to the information on the flash drive, the runner was twenty minutes early. He aimed his camera at the face of the man getting out of the car.
He never would have believed it.
4
Emerald Mound. He stared toward the ancient mound even though he couldn’t see it in the dark. The luminous minute hand on his watch crawled toward midnight. He shouldn’t have come so early. He reached for antacids, and his hand brushed the two-inch piece of basswood he always carried. He popped the antacids in his mouth, then drew out his knife and the wood, and seconds later he was whittling the lines of a duck, his nerves calming.
At precisely eleven fifty-nine, he folded the bone-handled knife and slipped the wood and knife in his pocket. One minute later, a dark sedan stopped and someone handed him a package wrapped in plastic without one word being spoken.
Just as silently he walked to his car, opened the trunk, and secured the package. His hand shook as he closed the deck lid. Now all he had to do was drive the package to Jackson, where someone else would take it on to Nashville.
A twig snapped, and he jerked his head toward the sound. “Who’s there?”
Silence. He stood stock-still a full minute. The only sound other than cicadas was thunder rolling toward him. He took out his phone and punched in a number. Come on, answer. When it went to voice mail, he hung up. What was going on? He couldn’t move until he had an exact destination, and a mile from Emerald Mound he would have no cell service. He paced by his car, his phone in his hand. Five minutes later it buzzed, and he answered.
“I have the package,” he said. “Where do I drop it off?”
The caller named a place this side of Jackson along with the description of his contact’s car. “Got it.” He disconnected and opened his car door. Headlights caught him in their glare as a truck swung into the circle parking area. Too late to run. The driver had already identified him.
The truck pulled in front of his car at an angle, blocking a forward escape. He recognized John Danvers’s truck then the district park ranger himself. Busted. He swallowed hard to keep down the bile that rose from his stomach. He’d have to talk his way out of this and waited as the ranger killed the engine and climbed out, leaving the door open.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t find you here,” Danvers said softly.
The ranger’s words were almost snatched away by a gust of wind.
“I like coming to the Mound. There’s something about being here, you know, the vibes. Have to go to Mexico to find another temple mound like this one.” He was talking too fast and too much. Sweat ran down the side of his face.
“I don’t need a history lesson.”
“Man, what’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem, and I don’t want to play games.” Danvers sighed. “I know why you’re here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The district ranger pulled his gun. “Why don’t we see what’s in your car before the rain hits.”
This couldn’t be happening. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, but only one stuck. He couldn’t fail. Adrenaline surged through him, and he rushed Danvers.
He tackled the ranger, taking him down. As they struggled, a flash of lightning struck a nearby tree and thunder shook the ground. They rolled on the asphalt beside the truck, bumping against the wheel. Strength surged through him and he pushed the ranger’s gun away, turning it toward Danvers’s chest.
The gun fired, the sound blasting his eardrums. Danvers’s body slumped under him.
For a second he didn’t move. What had he done? His heart threatened to explode or stop beating altogether as he struggled to his feet and stared at the body. Maybe Danvers was still alive. He knelt and felt his neck.
Nothing.
Noooo! He held back the primal scream in his chest as blood rushed through his head, drowning out every sound. He jerked toward the road, casting a furtive glance. What if someone just happened to drive by and see him? Or someone came to investigate the gunshot. With one last look at the body he turned and ran to his car. Thirty seconds later, he raced out of the parking lot as the first drops of rain fell.
5
Kyle slipped through the woods, arriving at his car half a mile away from Emerald Mound before the rain hit. Maybe he should have stayed around longer, but once he’d captured the drug transfer, he’d thought it wise to leave. Hanging around would only increase the chances of getting caught, and except for that one branch, he’d been as quiet as the Native Americans who used to hunt the area.
If he’d been caught, Brandon would not get justice, and justice was all Kyle was interested in at this point. That and seeing Boudreaux and his minions spend the rest of their lives in prison.
It had taken a while, but he’d figured out what happened. Boudreaux had hired Brandon with the sole purpose of getting him hooked on heroin again so he could blackmail Kyle to vote against the upcoming medical marijuana bill in the Mississippi legislature. Brandon messed that up when he hacked into Boudreaux’s computer system.
At first he hadn’t understood why the cartel wanted the medical marijuana bill defeated so badly, but after a little research Kyle discovered that the cartels had poured millions into California and Colorado to block the legalization of marijuana. When the bills passed anyway, the cartels’ sales plummeted. No one would risk buying from the cartel when it was easier to get it legally, and if Kyle had his way, history would repeat itself in Mississippi.
Kyle was certain the data drive contained a list of financial institutions where Boudreaux had hidden his drug money. Once Kyle learned who killed Brandon, he would hand the data drive off to someone who could nail Boudreaux for money laundering. And the photos from tonight were going to get him his information.
6
Brooke slapped at a mosquito buzzing in her ear. She and Gary had driven the Trace as far north as Rocky Springs and had pulled over at Port Gibson on the way back toward Natchez. It was a discreet place to observe traffic up and down the Trace.
“Is it usually this quiet?” Brooke asked, checking her watch. Almost midnight.
The seat creaked as Gary leaned forward and grabbed the bag on the dash. “Not really.”
The bag crinkled as he pulled out a handful of chips. She clamped her mouth shut, determined not to point out how many calories he was consuming. Gary Franklin looked like he’d spent most of his years sitting in his patrol car eating chips.
