Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1) (50 page)

Back in our room Cyrus looked at me as he mixed a Crown and water.

“
Your shares really go to Central if something happens to you?
”

“
Yep. I had Will
Coffee
update
my will. Kind of
surprised
Al
bert
a tad
,
didn
’
t it?
”

“
Yeah, I believe it did. It
’
s a smart move, Trace.
T
ake away the
Pantelli
’
s
fancy clothes, cars
,
and money
,
and you
’
ve got a couple of bottom
-
dwelling scum suckers. I told you, killing is just a tool with the
m
. We need to be very
,
very careful from here on out.
”

“
I
’
ve got to believe the
FBI is going to tie
the
Pantelli
s t
o
Rosenburg and Malcolm
’
s deaths
.
”

“
Maybe
.
Problem is
,
the guy who hit Rosenburg and tried to snuff Malcolm got snuffed himself. So he
’
s not around to testify against the
Pantelli
s.
”

“
What about
who
ever planted the bomb on Malcolm
’
s plane?
”

“
My guess is he, or she,
is
already out of the country.
”

I nodded in agreement
.
“
By the way, that little jab
about
Malcolm hit a nerve. I could see Al
’
s jaw tighten
,
just a bit.
”

“
They
’
re both very cool customers
, b
ut they
killed Malcolm and Rosenburg just a
s
sure as we
’
re standing here.
”

C
hapter
5
6

S
ean Flannigan
checked into a
cheap hotel
near Houston
’
s
Intercontinental Airport. He opened
a
throw
-
away cell phone and dialed Al
Pantelli
’
s number.

“
Al, it
’
s Sean.
”

“
Jesus, Sean, are you out of your fuckin
’
mind
?
You hit a cop
, a senior detective,
in my town
,
without asking me first. Do you know how much heat this is going to bring down?
”

“
It was me or him
, Al
. There must be a
warrant and a
description
out
on
me
.
The cop recognized me
,
called me by name
,
and
went for his piece
. I was damned lucky
to tag him first
.
”

“
Okay,
okay,
shit happens. Where are you now?
”

Sean hesitated
. H
e knew he was on thin ice with the
Pantelli
s.

“
I
’m
getting ready to take a little vacation. I
’
ll let you know where I end up.
”

“
Good plan. Lay low till the heat blows over.
And
goddamn it
,
Sean, don
’
t do anything else stupid.
”

“
It wasn
’
t stupid, Al. It was necessary.
Y
ou
’
d have done the same damn thing.
”

“
Maybe
. It
’
s just we
’
ve got a relationship with you
,
and naturally we want to protect it.
”

Sean knew
Al meant
protect the family
. Which meant he
’
d be a dead man if
he got
captured.

“
Don
’
t worry, Al
. T
hey won
’
t find me. I
’
ll
be
in touch.
”

“
You d
o that, Sean.
”

*****

Since
Sean Flannigan was considered a terrorist
,
FBI Special Agent
Monroe
and Agent Allen were
working closely with the New Orleans
P
olice
D
epartment
on the
shooting
of Detective Hebert.
T
hey re
-
interviewed both the bartender and the doorman at the
Club Le Bon Temps
.
Both
of the club
’
s employees
knew the suspect as Mr. McDougall
, and
b
oth
were able to
ID him from
photos
of Flannigan.

Agents
Monroe and Allen were seated at the bar in th
e Club
Le bon Temps
, having a
c
oke
after completing their questioning of the bartender.

“
It was Flannigan
,
all right,
”
Monroe said
.
“
It looks like Detective Hebert made him at the bar and followed him into the head.
”

“
Yep, and Flannigan was ready. Two in the chest and one in the head
. V
ery tidy
.
”

Monroe
’
s cell phone buzzed.

“
Special Agent Monroe
,
speaking.
”

Monroe listened for a minute
,
then pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and grabbed a napkin
from a stack on the bar.

“
Give me that again.
”

Monroe hung up and looked at Agent Allen
.
“
The NOPD located Sean
’
s apartment. They
’
re waiting for us before the
y
go in.
”

Monroe threw
five bucks
on the bar
,
and the two agents hauled ass.

The New Orleans Police had Sean
’
s apartment building sealed off.
Monroe and Allen pulled up, parked near a police cruiser
,
and w
alked over
to a
uniformed
l
ieutenant
,
who appeared to be running the operation.

“
Lieutenant, I
’
m Special Agent Monroe, FBI
,
and this is Agent Allen,
”
Monroe said, opening his badge holder.

“
I
’
m Lieutenant Decker. We
’
re ready when you are.
”

“
Let
’
s go have a look
-
see,
”
Monroe said.

Four uniformed cops
,
along with Lieutenant Decker, Monroe
,
and Allen
,
entered the apartment building and
cautiously ascend
ed
the stairs to the
second floor.

“
It
’
s number
tw
enty-two
,
”
L
ieutenant
Decker whispered, point
ing
two doors down
.

“
Are we going in hard or soft?
”
Monroe
asked
,
softly
.

“
Hard. Standby,
”
Decker
replied
,
in a low voice
,
motioning his men to get in position.

“
Guns out and up,
”
Decker whispered, pulling his .357 service revolver and positioning himself just to the left of the apartment
’
s door.

Lieutenant
Decker did a last
check of
his men
, then shouted
,
“
Police!
”
And
kicked the apartment
-
door open. The uniformed officers followed, guns at the ready.
Monroe and Allen were close on their heels.

“
Spread out. Check every room, closet, everything,
”
Decker
ordered
.

In a few moments, shouts of
“Clear!”
came from all quarters.

“
He
’
s not here,
Agent Monroe
,
”
Lieutenant
Decker said, the disappointment obvious in his voice.

Monroe figured
if he and Allen weren
’
t present for the raid, and if Flannigan had been in his apartment, he
’
d have been shot about twenty times
. . .
trying to escape.
Cops hated a cop killer
,
above all else.

“
No, not now
, b
ut he
’
s been here since the shooting.
L
ook at this,
”
Monroe said, pointing to a few red whiskers
stuck around the drain in the bathroom
sink.
“
He
’
s shaved his goatee and dyed his hair from the looks of it,
”
Monroe said, picking
an empty hair
-
dye bottle from the trash.
“
Our red
-
headed Irishman is now a brunette. Agent Allen
,
update
the
APB with this new information. Make sure security at all the major airports within a six
-
hundred
-
mile radius get
the revised info
.
”

Special Agent Monroe had the right idea
, b
ut he was about four hours too late.
Earlier that morning,
William O
’
Connell
,
aka
,
Sean Flannigan,
boarded a
n Island Air
737
bound for George Town, Grand Cayman.
As
the
updated description was
being
delivered to security
personnel
at Houston
Intercontinental Airport
,
Flannigan
was checking into the
Colonial
Hotel on
Grand Cayman
Island
.

While he was waiting to get a hit on
Flannigan
’
s
revised
APB, Special Agent Monroe decided
to
go see Mr. Bugati. He called the warden at
Pollack Federal Prison near Alexandria, Louisiana
,
and got permission to interview Bugati. Monroe knew it was his last best chance
.
The Chemist was dead
and buried
, but
Bugati
might be able to give him enough to
implicate the
Pantelli
s.

M
o
nroe
met with Bugati in
a
special interview room. The convict was thin
and
wiry with short
-
cropped hair
and
jailhouse
tats on his forearms
.
His
close
-
set dark eyes
and narrow
,
pinched face
reminded Monroe of a weasel
, w
hich he hoped would be the case.

“
Mr. Bugati, I
’
m Special Agent Monroe. I believe you
’
ve already spoken to
A
gent Allen?
”

“
Yes,
sir
, I have.
”

“
Uh-huh
.
I
’
ll get right to it
,
Mr. Bugati. I think you
’
re a slime
-
ball
,
and I
’
d love to see you sit around here for a few more years
,
and m
aybe get shanked
out in
the yard or anally explored in the showers.
But,
if you can help us build a case against the
Pantelli
s, I
’
ll arrange an early release
,
and you
’
ll be back on the street. You
’
ve got this one chance
.
I won
’
t be back. Are
we clear on that?
”