Caribbean Rain (30 page)

“You be right on a ting or two, Agent. I was sent to make tings hurt for you, no doubt, den, put dis cannon to dat head, and see how many pieces dat slick brain of yours make in da process.”

There it was again. Manny had read much about the expressions a face can make stimulated by the subconscious. Micro Expressions was a fairly new technology based on the slow-motion analysis of videos recorded when people were relating facts about a particular incident. But some people had a natural ability for it. The theory said that if you instinctively knew someone’s motivation, could always tell when someone was lying, or even had a natural dislike for another without a concrete reason, that maybe you had the gift.

Braxton’s face was giving him away. There was almost a smile at the corner of his mouth each time he spoke, like he knew something Manny didn’t. Not unusual for cold-blooded killers who enjoyed their work, but this expression was different. And his eyes. They sparkled more than they should. He sensed no real dread in them. Most people who had been in shoes like Braxton’s would have no compunction for regret, but the corner of his mouth and the lines running across his forehead said differently. And his dialect had slipped, ever so slightly, but it had. Maybe he had some formal education.

Taking a step forward, Manny prayed he was right. He had no choice. The killer wasn’t going to wait, and they still hadn’t gotten to second base in the investigation.

“When do we get this dance started?”

Braxton didn’t react, just held his ground like a curious bull.

The perspiration flowed faster as he felt his foot take the next step and crunch the small twig. The sound echoed loudly through the clearing.

“You tink you know what you’re doing, Williams? I don’t tink you do.” The wide grin gave Manny a little more confidence.

I’m a foolish moron. He’s going to blow my brains out after he breaks every bone in my body.

Except Braxton hadn’t started that assignment. Why? Was he that confident in his size and his arms disguised as tree trunks?

Taking the next step, literally, was Manny’s only option. He did and now was just a few feet from the man. He could hear his breathing, and the weapon took on the profile of an artillery gun.

Then, as if cued, Braxton dropped the gun to his side, and grinned even wider, if that were possible. A second later, he had Manny’s arm in one hand and drew him within an inch of his face. Manny’s toes were almost off the ground. Braxton’s grip was more like a vice than any vice Manny had used. This guy could cause serious damage to his arm, if he had a mind to. But there was almost a gentleness . . . and there was that damn twitch around his mouth.

Fifteen seconds later, still staring at each other, Manny smiled.

“Are we going to kiss or are you going to tell me how long you’ve been under?”

Releasing him, Braxton stepped back, scowled, then broke into a full belly laugh. “I read dat profile dat Ruiz sent to Fogerty, the one dat said you were the FBI’s new BAU Wonder Boy, but who can believe all of dat shit. But I do now.” There was only a hint of island dialect in his booming voice now. “How did you know?”

“Let’s just say that your face gave you away.”

He nodded. “Micro Expressions. Been working on not letting dat show. What if you’d been wrong, mon?”

“Fogerty would have gotten that video of me bleeding all over the rainforest, I suppose. So how long?”

Reaching out a hand that engulfed Manny’s, they shook, and Braxton laughed again. “I’m Braxton Smythe, and I’ve been working for the DEA for almost nine years, but we can talk about dat later. Can I use your phone? If tings went well, Fogerty’s in cuffs and that would sure as hell make my day.”

Manny plucked it out of his shirt, and then noticed he had nine messages from Chloe. He’d turned the sound off when he got here, and this was the first time he’d looked at the screen. She was either worried about something or had butt-dialed him several times. His vote was on worry.

“Hurry, up, mon.” mocked Manny. “I need to make one too.”

“I will. Dis must be a good spot for the phone. Don’t get dat everywhere up here.”

A few moments later, Braxton handed back the phone. His smile had disappeared.

“What?”

“Good news, bad news, mon. The good news is dat Fogerty’s dead. A few days ago, I was able to put a new chip in his phone while he was in da throes wid some hooker in Barbados. He thought I was taking the GPS out, but really I put a very sophisticated one in. We thought we were getting close to nailing his ass, but he always seemed to have dat sixth sense, and we wanted to make sure he couldn’t run and hide. Not sure why he didn’t toss it away, but it was a pretty phone with 4G so I guess dat’s why he kept it. Anyway, after he killed one of your undercovers this morning, we had enough.”

“Wait, we had an undercover, too?”

“Yeah. Domingo. Someone dropped da dime on him, and Fogerty killed him. It was all I could do to control myself and not tear his head off his shoulders, but God knows I had to. Fogerty had information on the South American operations that would have saved him from the gas chamber, and he would have squealed like a pig, because, as he used to say, he knows information is life. Hell, he probably would have gotten a retirement farm out of it. The San Juan DEA agents followed him to a parking lot, where something went wrong, and they killed him.”

“I wish I could say I was sorry, but I’m not,” said Manny.

“Me either. It would have been nice to get dat other information, but we’re working on dat in other ways, so maybe it’s all good, ya know?”

Manny ran his fingers through his hair. “You said there was bad news.”

“You better stop that or you’re going to go bald . . . like me,” said Braxton, running his hand over his clean-shaven brow.

“I’ll remember that. So?” he asked, as he began to dial Chloe.

“My face is all over the Caribbean as Fogerty’s number one and I know a ting or two, myself. So—”

A second later, Manny felt the shot whiz past before he heard it. Instinct sent him to the ground as he yelled for Braxton to get down. Too late. There was a second shot. Braxton listed to the left and then crumpled to the ground, blood gushing from his head.

Chapter-58

Dean stepped out of the truck as the agent driving followed. He was scoping the exterior of the neat, stucco bungalow located on New San Juan’s north end, where Ruiz had lived. A moment later, Detective Crouse pulled in behind them. She and another suit got out of the car. The other suit stayed as she worked her way in his direction, the white stone crunching under her steps. She’d been crying, and why not? Ruiz had been her partner. From what Dean could tell, Ruiz had been a good man, mostly. Then again, didn’t that apply to all of us? He shook off the thoughts sending him down Philosophical Lane. He had work to do and the sooner it was done, the quicker he could get back to his team, and Sophie.

“Sorry for your loss, Detective.”

She waved him off. “He made his own bed. I’m just pissed I didn’t see—”

“And that he didn’t ask for help?” he suggested, adjusting his green paisley shorts.

“Yes. That too. But I’ll deal with it. What choice do I have?” she said quietly.

“None, I guess. So, are you ready for this?”

Nodding, she stepped up the cement-gray steps and moved to the door just as another white SUV pulled up wearing the FBI logo. Three more agents got out and stood beside the vehicle. All wore dark sunglasses and moved to the side of the truck closest to the house, with arms folded.

“Nothing like a little overkill on the backup,” said Dean.

“I guess I don’t blame them. This could be bad for the department and the FBI. Hell,
it will
be bad for both departments,” she responded.

Dean found himself liking her a little more. She was at least honest.

Reaching under the potted Azalea near the front window, she grabbed the key, unlocked the door, drew her weapon, and walked in, Dean following behind her. A few moments later, three other sunglass-clad agents were on their heels.

“Where do we go?” asked Crouse.

“Computer room file cabinet, blue notebook,” said Dean.

Julia led them through the small, neat family room and entered a tiny bedroom set up as an office. Near the glass computer desk stood the file cabinet Ruiz had told them about.

Detective Crouse began to reach for the drawer, and he stopped her. “I’ll do that. Sorry, but please go stand by the door. Boss’s orders.”

He expected a full-blown pissy fit, but for a change, she simply nodded, moved to just inside the door, crossed her arms, and leaned against the red wall. For that, Dean was grateful. There was enough shit going on, here and in the rainforest, where he’d much rather be.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pair of gloves, snapped them on, then tested the handle of the drawer. He was surprised that it wasn’t locked, and even more surprised that the blue notebook was still there. Visions of conspiracy plots had been dancing in his head, and he was sure the book would be gone.

Damn. Too many crime novels.

Pulling it out of its bed, he leafed through a couple pages, then a couple more, and whistled.

“This looks like something out of a ‘hooker tells all’ book. Let’s go.”

He quickly dropped it into an evidence bag and turned for the door.

“I’ll take that now.”

The young agent who had driven Dean to the house was standing in the doorway, gun drawn, with a look on his face somewhere between fear and evil.

“Are you sure you want to do this? You’re going to have to shoot all of us to—” said Dean.

He racked the slide on his Glock. “Don’t worry about that; just give me the damned book.”

A second later, the young agent was out cold. He never saw the long leg that Julia Crouse flashed, hitting him square on the jaw, sending him and the gun flying.

Letting out a breath, Dean headed for the door as the other three agents pounced on their fallen comrade like zombies in a Zane Bradey novel.

“Thanks, Detective. I didn’t have time to die today.”

She grinned. “Funny boy. I guess we know one of the names in that notebook.”

“We do.”

Glancing at her, he suddenly felt the need to ask. “So, does that mean we won’t see your name in there?”

She didn’t speak and moved outside to the small stoop. She played with the key in her hand, and then stuffed it in the pocket of her black jeans.

“You know, I guess I thought there was something wrong when Carlos told me about all of those therapy bills for Anna,” said Crouse. “I figured he’d found a way. I should have been nosier. Maybe things would have been different.”

“Maybe. But you can’t put Humpty back together again.”

“You’re right. We don’t get many do-overs, do we?” Folding her arms, she sighed. “No, Agent. I won’t be in there. My ex and I both came from money. But who’s to say, given the right circumstances…?”

The three agents carried the man Julia had cold-cocked past them just as the officer who had accompanied her walked up. He spoke to her in Spanish for few moments, and Dean watched her lips form a long, thin line.

“Shit, does it ever stop?”

“What?”

“There’s been another package delivered.”

“This is worse than LA. Where?”

“On the hood of a squad car parked at a restaurant. The officers had stopped for breakfast and never saw a thing.”

“Did anyone open it?”

“They called for backup, checked it out for explosives, but they were pretty sure it was the same MO and box type as the other two. So yeah, they opened it.”

“And?” Dean asked, knowing her answer wasn’t going to make his day.

“Heart,” she said, absently. “It was a human heart.”

Chapter-59

“I suppose it’s true. Nothing lasts forever, and that’s probably an enlightening way to digest the path we choose in this life. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The bed whispered a soft complaint as he crossed his legs and smiled at Anna. Her eyes were closed, and she lay so very still. That seemed appropriate, giving all she’d been through. After all, hadn’t she been a major help to him? And she had the heart of a lion. He grinned.

But the conversation was not going to be as interesting as it could be. One-way discussions seldom were, but they did have their advantages. He’d taught his students, uncountable times, to speak concerns, facts, and passages from textbooks out loud. Hearing helped. The audible could also assist one in advancing to the next level of thought. Like his next step, and his last in the crusade that had evolved into more. Much more. El Yunque was the love of his life, but the line between that love and his newfound pleasure had grown fuzzy after the first “lessons.”

Over the last few days, he’d come to realize just what the words “enjoy your work” really signified. And how the rules didn’t pertain to men like him.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow, my twisted Anna. But I suppose you know that by now. For people like us, it’s no longer a matter of the heart.”

He laughed, then louder. “That was funny, don’t you think?”

Standing, he reached for the camera on the dresser. He gazed at her and, noticing the thin line of sunshine diagonally across her nude body, marveled at the effect. After taking several more pictures of the bloodied woman on his bed, he bent low, kissed her on the forehead, and moved to the door.

“As I said, this is goodbye. If everything goes according to plan—and it will—I will be avenged, El Yunque will be a better place, and I’ll have the euphoria that the screaming masses will provide. You have been instrumental in all of it. That should make you feel good, if you could.”

He closed the door and strolled to the front room where a bundle of ancient rapier swords and Katanas rested on top of a long, black duffel bag. Just to the right stood a small metal briefcase, and to the right of that, a larger, blue, nondescript suitcase. Resting on the wide top of the luggage was an airline ticket envelope.

Taking his time, he carefully loaded the blades in the bag and ushered them to his SUV. He came back for the blue suitcase, loaded it, and returned to the living room. As he carefully rescued the metal satchel from the floor, he stood in place, and then did a slow, deliberate three-sixty, trying to decide what his mother would think of his journey. She’d always been proud of him, no matter what he did, but what about now? Would she encourage him and say that he was her reason? He was abruptly struck with the notion that maybe what he was doing wasn’t exactly . . .