Code 13 (52 page)

Another shot rang out.

The man fell face-first onto the concrete, his loose pistol bouncing on the driveway beside him. And when he fell, Kriete stood on the other side of him, locked in a classic shooter's stance, gun pointed straight out, aimed into the space the man had occupied half a second earlier.

“Good shooting, Captain!” Mark blurted, but he was instantly jealous that Paul Kriete, who was not even a federal agent, had scored the first kill in this operation.

In fact, maybe the operation was over.

Jets of anger flushed his body. Even if he had headed the operation, this wasn't the way he wanted it to end.

But then, glancing first at the man Kriete had just gunned down, then at the man cuffed on his knees, he had another thought.

“The shooter's still inside.”

“What do you mean, boss?”

“Remember the pictures from the drone?”

“What about it?”

“The shooter has gray hair. The guy the captain took out is bald. This guy we just captured has black hair. That means the shooter is still unaccounted for.”

“Good point.” Frymier pointed his gun at the man in captivity, still on his knees, hands cuffed behind his back, his feet shackled by chains.

Mark stepped over the man and jammed his pistol barrel into his right temple. “Who else is in there?”

The scumbag coughed. “I ain't sayin' nothin' till I talk to my lawyer.”

“You want to talk to a lawyer, do you?” Mark put his shoe on the man's head and kicked him over. The back of his head hit the concrete and he screamed in pain.

Mark kneeled down, put his knee on the man's skull, grinding it into the concrete, and jammed his gun into the man's ear.

“Look, scumbag. Here's the way this is going down. You charged me with your gun, and I had to put a bullet through your head in self-defense. It's gonna be hard to talk to your lawyer with a bullet in your head. Now, how many people are left in there, and where are they located?”

No response.

“Want to be that way, do you?” Mark stepped down onto the man's head, riveting the pressure on his skull.

“Okay! Okay!”

“How many, scumbag? And where are they located?”

“Okay. One left. He's probably in the office.”

“What's his name?”

No response.

Mark stepped on the man's head again. “I said,
what's his name
?”

“Mr. T.! We call him Mr. T.!”

“Where's the office?”

“Go through the garage. Through the door on the right. Down the hallway. Third door on the left. You'll find him there.”

“Anybody else in there?”

“No! Just him.”

“You'd better not be lying to me. Because if you're lying, your brains are scrambled eggs!” He jammed the gun barrel into the man's mouth. “Got it?”

“I ain't lying!”

“Watch him, Frymier. I'm going after that guy. If this one gives you any trouble, take him out.”

“With pleasure, boss.”

Mark strapped a gas mask over his face and moved toward the open bay of the warehouse.

Gun drawn, he stepped inside.

The tear gas was dissipating but not totally gone. Through the lenses of the gas mask, he could see boxes, wooden crates actually,
stacked up against all four walls. The crates had “New York Concrete & Seafood Company” painted on them in red.

He realized he had stepped into a refrigerated warehouse, which seemed odd, considering that the bay door was wide open, allowing refrigerated air to escape into the warm morning sunshine outside.

Perhaps leaving the door open was a trap.

Or perhaps they just hadn't gotten around to closing it yet.

Or perhaps they were expecting a shipment of whatever they were storing.

The boxes said “seafood.” But all boxes that contained illegal drugs were labeled with something else.

In Mark's gut, he knew he had just stumbled upon a huge drug bust. This would explain why they weren't too worried about refrigeration.

Cocaine didn't need to be refrigerated.

A new surge of adrenaline shot through his body. Not only would he get credit for leading the operation against the terrorist assassin of naval officers, which in and of itself would make him a national hero, but he'd also be credited with a mammoth drug bust.

His expertise would be sought after on national news and talk shows, much like Mark Fuhrman and other cops who became national celebrities as a result of high-profile cases.

But he could only let that thought sink in for half a second.

First, he had a job to finish.

Off to his right, a single steel door, almost like a refrigerator door, led into the rest of the warehouse. It was closed.

Mark remembered the instructions from the man in captivity.
“Through the door on the right. Down the hallway. Third door on the left. You'll find him there.”

Aiming his gun in his right hand, Mark put his left hand on the knob and opened the door.

Fluorescent lighting lit a long, wide hallway with a concrete floor. The hallway looked to be about fifty feet in length from the doorway. Seeing no one, Mark stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

He removed the gas mask and set it on the floor.

Thoughts flooded his mind.

What if the scumbag had lied about the number of thugs left in the building?

Could this be an ambush?

Perhaps he should wait for reinforcements.

He hesitated for a second.

No point in worrying about that now.

Besides, delays or reinforcements would guarantee a battle for control of this operation. The risk was worth it. The greater the risk, the greater the reward.

And in this case, the potential reward was off the charts.

Softly, he stepped forward. Past the first door. Past the second door.

His back against the wall, he stopped just before he reached the third door. Careful not to expose his body in front of the doorframe, he reached over and rapped on the door three times, then pulled back.

“Federal agent! I know you're in there. Come out with your hands up!”

Four shots rang out in rapid succession, with bullets flying through the door and into the opposite wall.

“Aaaaahhh!” Mark cried out, feigning being hit.

Another shot fired through the center of the door, and then a sixth shot down at the foot.

This cat was crazy.

Mark had to act. Now.

Holding his gun out, he stepped in front of the door, kicked it open, and with lightning speed unloaded six shots at the man behind the desk.

The man slumped forward. Blood gushed from his head and chest.

Mark stepped forward, pulled the .357 from his back belt, and laid it on the dead man's desk.

Mission accomplished.

CHAPTER 38

HEADQUARTERS

NEW YORK CONCRETE & SEAFOOD COMPANY

EAST 161ST STREET

THE BRONX

WEDNESDAY, 10:00 A.M.

Phillip D'Agostino slammed down the telephone. The family kept lawyers retained all over the country and fed money to the topflight criminal defense lawyers in New York, Washington, Miami, Chicago, and LA, whether or not they had active cases going, just in case.

Still, Phil hated calls from lawyers. Calls from lawyers usually meant something bad was happening. The call he'd just gotten from the family's lead attorney in Washington, DC, Dickie DeMarco, was no exception.

And now Phil had to make another call.

“Hey, Vivian!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get Big Sal on the phone for me, will ya?”

“Yes, sir.”

Phil sat back and lit up a cigarette. The nicotine filled his lungs, bringing instant relief. After calling Big Sal, he would have to call Maria. She would survive the loss, which was a silver lining in the cloud as far as Phil was concerned.

“Big Sal is on the phone, sir.”

Phil took another drag from the cigarette and picked up the phone.

“Sorry to call you with bad news, Sal. We just got a call from Dickie DeMarco in Washington. The feds raided our warehouse on the Anacostia River. Vinnie's dead. No . . . no, I haven't told Maria yet. No big loss as far as I'm concerned. The big problem is that they grabbed lots of stash, mostly cocaine.

“Now that the feds have raided our Washington facility, we'll need to leave the country for a while. I'm sending the jet to pick you up. Be ready to fly in thirty minutes. We need to get out of Dodge. It's just a matter of time before the feds will be crawling all over the place . . . Where are we going? First to Cuba, then Venezuela. We'll all be enjoying a little Caribbean sunshine while our lawyers get this all straightened out. Yes . . . yes . . . Dickie DeMarco says with the right money we can make Vinnie the scapegoat and the ringleader, and the press will report him as being the godfather, and we can be back in business in a few months. Meantime, Dickie says just enjoy the sunshine and he'll take care of the rest . . . Right . . . right . . . See you in a few.”

Phil hung up the phone. “Vivian, I've got to take a little trip. Hold down the fort while I'm gone.”

“Yes, sir.”

WALTER REED NATIONAL MEDICAL CENTER

BETHESDA, MARYLAND

WEDNESDAY, 2:45 P.M.

“Commander,” the nurse said, “Dr. Berman will be right in.”

Caroline sat up in bed, frustrated that she was still stuck in this godforsaken place and ready to give Commander Lawrence Berman, Medical Corps USN, a piece of her Irish-Scottish mind if he didn't release her.

A moment later, Berman stepped in with a huge grin on his face, which didn't necessarily mean anything. He always had a grin on his face.

“Good news!”

“I hope ‘good news' means you're letting me out of this place.”

“Yes, it does, as a matter of fact. If you can just give us a couple of hours to process the paperwork, we should have you out of here by 1700 hours.”

“You serious?”

“Dead serious. And not only that, I've got other good news.”

“What's that?”

“You've got visitors. Top-brass visitors. Want them now?”

“Absolutely!”

Berman stepped into the hallway. “Gentlemen, she's ready for you.”

Paul Kriete entered the room first, looking stunningly handsome, which made her feel guilty for noticing. Paul was followed by Admiral Brewer. They both smiled at her, though not as widely as Berman had grinned.

“How's the world's greatest JAG officer?” Paul asked.

“He's standing right there.” Caroline nodded at Brewer. “Why don't you ask him?”

Brewer chuckled.

“I see you haven't lost that quick wit of yours,” Paul said.

“Maybe my quick wit is back because the doc just told me I'm finally getting out of this place.”

“Really?” Paul quipped, flashing a sly smile. “The doc told me he'd let you out only if you promised to celebrate with your favorite Navy captain.”

“But—”

“And besides, the admiral tells me he's got some more good news you might be interested in.”

“Really?” She looked over at Brewer, who nodded his head. “I can return to duty tomorrow morning?”

Brewer grinned. “Yes, I know Captain Guy will love to have you back, and I think you'll be happy to know no one at Code 13 is a target anymore.”

“Sir?”

“We got the guy who killed P.J. and Ross Simmons. He's dead.”

“Really?” Caroline felt her eyes widen. “What happened?”

“Let me put it this way. NCIS arranged a stakeout. Your friend Special Agent Romanov took charge of the operation. They wound up in a warehouse over in DC.

“Turns out the bad guys were part of an organized criminal syndicate that opposed the drone contract. It also appears that they were smuggling in cocaine by boats and bringing it into warehouses here in the U.S. That's why they didn't want the drones. They're afraid our drones would be bad for their business.