NightShade Forensic FBI Files, page 27
When she and Jason finally hit a stopping point, they sat at a table at a sidewalk cafe and she turned her service back on. She was risking exposure, but it would be worse to risk her fellow agents mounting a search for her and Jason if they didn’t check in. Hitting a few buttons, she took a deep breath, glad to finally stop for a moment, even if she couldn’t let her guard down. “Eleri, we got pictures, but we got found out.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, but I’m not certain we aren’t being followed.” She sighed and explained. “I think you need to move everyone. I’m sorry.”
They would have to casually wait here for a long time, trusting the others to pack up the things they’d left behind and get them to a new location. She and Jason waited it out by eating at the café, a boon as GJ was ravenous after her heart-pounding exit from the beach. She bought a hat and got Jason a new t-shirt, giving him another color and hopefully scrambling anyone who knew what they were looking for. She could only trust it was enough.
Two hours later, she was hauling the bike up the stairs of a new building. This one looked like GJ’s idea of a Southern home. Not a plantation, but the sprawling house with wide porches set with ceiling fans. Thick wood railings lined the outdoor seating area, and dormer windows stood sentry on the roof. Only here they eschewed the final touch of the deep south with more lacquer and less white paint.
Inside the suite, all five of the others waited for them. Hannah and Noah had been the designated sleepers for this shift, though they didn't look rested. Eleri greeted them at the door with, “What did you get?”
Sitting at the table—she sank like a brick into the chair, because she was now thoroughly tired—GJ plugged in the tiny camera, eager to see the pictures. Behind her, Eleri was trying to give the original crew of the Calypso something to do that didn’t involve FBI business. But, though the three of them sat on the other side of the room, there wasn’t much to keep them out of private FBI business.
They were all in this, Eleri realized. It was hard enough discussing the necessary things as agents without even delving into any of NightShade’s business with three casual onlookers standing by.
The four agents crowded around the screen, analyzing the building layout.
“They’re right on the shoreline,” Eleri commented. “You’d think that wouldn't be good at high tide. Or if there was any kind of surge.”
“It looks like they may be elevated a little bit. Can we get satellite images?” Donovan asked even as he was reaching for another device, probably already logging in to pull up whatever images he could.
GJ looked to the other three faces. She didn't want to tell them. “Here's the bad news. I can't be positive, but I think we encountered our guy.”
“Our guy?” Noah looked up at her, brows pulled tight.
She hadn’t wanted to say it, but there was no way around it. As GJ opened her mouth, Jason—from the other side of the room—filled it in. “The one who killed Allison.”
“Somebody was throwing rocks at us. Overall it was pretty mild.” That brought a scoff from Jason, but she continued. “But we couldn’t see who. They must have been in the trees, across a wide road. Unless it was someone with a rock gun he could aim, the gravel should not have sailed that far at that speed.”
“Well, crap. He's here,” Eleri commented, agreeing that this was the same person who’d murdered Allison.
Hannah’s voice chimed in from across the room. “But that means we can get him. Right?”
The agents looked to each other. Nobody wanted to make that kind of a promise.
“The satellite images are good.” Donovan quickly changed the subject. “They show Miranda has a high volume of boat traffic at this location. I guess they're delivering whatever they've got here. The question is, what is it?”
This time, Jason stood up and walked over to stand behind GJ. So much for keeping the other three out of the conversation. “They aren't boating it out. They're diving it out.”
“What?” GJ asked. She’d been there, too, but she hadn’t seen that.
“You wouldn't let me talk.” Jason’s tone held a bit of accusation.
“No,” she replied. Not that anyone could have stopped him. “We were found out quickly enough as it was.”
He didn't apologize, but he didn't push his point anymore, either. “It's a dive operation.”
“How could you tell?” She was still looking up at him rather than at the pictures.
“The trucks that came through the gate had a series of straps in beds. Those straps hold dive tanks. So they're not only bringing in tanks for whatever they’re doing at the compound, they’re bringing in enough tanks to line the walls of pickup trucks. That's an operation, not just a few casual dives.” He motioned to GJ to scroll back a few pictures. “The guys we saw coming in? Those are divers.”
“How can you tell?” Donovan asked.
This time, it was Hannah who answered from her seat against the wall. “I don't know what to tell you, but we divers recognize each other. It’s probably that we're generally lean. We're fit. We have saltwater hair. We've got good lung capacity, and we can walk around with forty pounds of equipment on our back and fins on our feet. There’s a certain look.”
GJ glanced to Eleri, then to Noah. They were the divers of the group, and she didn’t see anything on them that said “diver”—but they were only occasional divers. They didn't dive for their livelihood or run an operation the way these guys did. The three agents shrugged to each other and let it stand.
“So, we have tanks and divers going in—” GJ said, just to keep the forward momentum, but Jason interrupted her again.
“More than that.” He motioned her to stop on a particular picture. “These buildings—here—that you were looking at. The steps go up the front.” He turned next to Eleri. “And you were right about the water coming up to them. The steps go up so high in the front because the base floor is at the top of those steps, about a floor and a half above the ground level here.” He pointed to each spot.
“These tanks—” he said, pointing next to twin, silo-like features on the front of the building.
They’re tanks, GJ thought. It hadn't occurred to her.
“They’re for sea water. They've got piping that goes out the back of the building. That's why the building is so close to shore. They're sucking seawater directly into the tanks to hold it for use inside. Then, once you're in the building, if you go downstairs. . . you can't see it from this picture.” He pointed as though motioning around to the back side. “There are boats under there. The water does come up under the building, and that's the point. You walk down the stairs into a floating dock and launch directly into the water.”
Donovan held up another picture on the tablet. He’d found an overhead shot of the building. “Unless you’re out on the water, you can’t see the backside of the building. Which means they are loading these boats in almost complete privacy.”
He flipped through a few shots, and Eleri stopped him on one. There was a boat in the picture a decent distance from the Miranda dock, aimed outward into the ocean. “You can’t be sure, but it looks like it’s leaving the compound. And it looks like the cigarette boat we saw.”
59
Donovan stood in the woods, stripping naked. Mosquitos came up to check him out, but sniffed at him and then left him alone. He was as much an anomaly to them as he was to everything else.
Peeling his shirt off and stepping out of his shoes, he thought about how monumentally stupid this was. But he still folded the clothing and shoved it into his bag before tying the bag to a branch. Normally, he did this to keep his supplies away from other animals that might run off with them. Although here, he’d only seen iguanas and the occasional pig—nothing that was going to steal his clothing while he was out.
He wanted to call out to Noah and ask if anyone was coming by, but he knew Noah would tell him. Despite Noah’s newness to the whole situation, Donovan had to trust that it was better to stay quiet. He was already trusting Noah with all his ID and a backup set of clothing. He hoped it was the right move.
There had to be laws about public nudity on this island, but he didn’t know them, and he could only hope they were much more lax than those in the US. If anyone caught him, he had no authority whatsoever. Flashing his FBI badge would likely only get him laughed at.
Still, he stood there, fully nude as he began the process of changing. It felt good. He rolled his shoulders, twisted his neck to one side and the other, wiggled his jaw. And slowly, piece by piece—almost like being double-jointed or slipping a shoulder out of a socket—he rolled into his new form.
Even as he did so, the smells of the forest bloomed and came fully alive. The pine and sea grass snuck up into his sinuses. The mangroves nearby were no longer just trees he saw, but beings he smelled and heard. The sand and the sea changed as his face opened up. He could now differentiate the scent of the algae here from that where they were staying, just several miles away.
In the distance, the waves crashed rhythmically, but now he heard each one. He heard the undertow pulling them back out and he heard the water as it was slapped against rocks in the far distance. In the hotels down the street, as well as inside the Miranda compound, his ears could distinguish all the little ups and downs of the business. Things being lifted, set, the beeping of motorized equipment. Footsteps. And, of course, the boats chugging to life.
He padded out on four paws, hoping he looked more like a big, friendly dog than an ancient myth. He had no idea what the local superstitions were, but he had decided to brave them.
Noah took point, acting the human. He led them out of the woods, through the back pool and lounge areas of one of the hotels and across the street. They hit the beach and followed the water line around the tip of a small rock jetty toward their destination. The sand squished beneath Donovan’s paws, offering a slight squeak of saturation each time he stepped. Noah’s shoes offered a rubbery sliding noise, but Donovan was grateful his partner’s breathing was slow, if heavy. Noah wasn’t oblivious to the danger of the situation, but he had himself under control.
The birds squealed as they dove for whatever tiny fish they were finding, each shriek followed by a splash. The waves sloshed and slapped. If he hadn’t been going out for reconn, the day would be beautiful. Donovan took a deep breath and he smelled it.
Heroin.
Cocaine.
Dogs could easily sniff it out, and so could he. His ability to detect drugs this far from the Miranda Industries location either meant some was here on the beach, or they were dealing in incredibly large quantities. He stuck his nose to the sand and checked. No. It was here, but only in trace amounts. That wasn’t what he was smelling.
Earlier, they had looked up Nassau’s laws regarding drug-running. But with so much tourist and non-local traffic through the islands, it seemed the rules were enforced haphazardly, if at all.
Miranda apparently wasn’t feeling any pinch from the authorities. Whether that was because the company was staying under the radar or because they had some kind of handshake deal with the locals, Donovan didn't yet know.
He hit the point where it was time to head off on his own. Turning, he looked back to Noah and offered two short barks. That was the signal for Noah to stay put. His blond partner looked perfectly at home sliding his backpack off and setting it on the sand. He even declared, “This looks like a good spot.”
Donovan nodded along. This was the game they had decided to play: Noah, the beach-going book reader, and Donovan, his dog who ran off and explored. He didn't wait as Noah set out his towel and settled in, he just listened to the noises getting fainter in the distance as he trotted along the sand. Soon, he was weaving in and out of the dunes, several of which still carried the scent of fear from where GJ and Jason had hidden earlier that day.
Overlying that, though, he smelled blood—human blood—and that was concerning. It didn’t belong to either GJ or Jason. Though they both had wounds, neither had bled enough to leave this strong a scent. So he wondered, was it from an injury that was small but more recent? Or was it something big and maybe more distant?
The day was pushing on, and he didn’t have time to check out the blood. Instead, the fence got his attention. Sniffing at the vines, he pushed them out of the way for a good look inside, counting on the fact that everyone would discount a dog.
Walking down toward his right and into the ocean and swimming around the edge of the fence was not an option for him. Although he could probably swim—most dogs swam, but not his kind—he wouldn't want to get bracketed in like that. So he followed the fence around to the left, absorbing all the smells as he went.
There were a large number of people inside the building. They talked at low levels, joking as things like heavy bags smacked against each other. It sounded as though they were hauling sacks of flour. But Donovan suspected it wasn't flour they were moving.
Trotting right up to the gate, thinking he would go for his biggest move yet, he poked around. Maybe they'd let a dog inside. He was, after all, just a friendly puppy. Right.
He hated playing house pet. But right now, he was far more curious about what was inside than he was irritated at being treated like an overly friendly, dumb object. Hanging out, he watched as several vehicles passed by, including one large truck and a few personal cars. On the third one, he made his move.
When the gate opened, he trotted in after the car, doing his best Golden Retriever impression. At first glance, it was clear this was a full-scale operation. There were fabric canopies strung between the trees. They probably weren’t so much to keep the workers shaded as they were there to stop satellite and drone images from catching the activity.
But once under the awnings and inside the fence, they weren’t hiding much of anything. All the people were moving freely. He couldn’t pad around and gawk all afternoon, so he went up to one of the guards, nudging at his hand.
The hand smelled of rifle oil, and Donovan spotted the weapon set into a cradle just inside the gate. This way, the guards could step outside with only a handgun holstered at their waist, but with far more firepower easily in reach.
Looking up, he whined at the one he was almost forcing to pet his head, hoping the sound came across as though maybe he were hungry or lost.
“Hey boy, aren't you pretty?” The guard crouched a little and actually scratched between his ears now.
Donovan nudged up against his legs, using the gesture to pass farther into the compound. He spotted a row of rifles, set into notches and ready to go.
Shit, he thought, there was more fire power at hand than what the guards could pick up. They were ready for more than just defense. Even as he thought that, he heard the sound he wanted: the gate closing behind him.
“Who do you belong to?”
Test Number Two. The guard handled the collar Donovan had reluctantly worn. He didn’t find a tag, but he didn’t seem to find the hidden camera, either. Donovan almost licked his face, but he was afraid he might get a swath of coke—or worse—from the man’s skin. Powder was free-floating in the air, and everyone had to be at least a little high. So far, Donovan wasn't feeling any hit.
He meandered away then, moving agilely between the workers, accepting pats on the head and scratches under the chin as he took in the operation, hoping the camera he wore caught it all.
It was interesting that Miranda was running two kinds of drugs simultaneously. That was unusual. They were also operating with the packages out in the open—not the way it would be done in the US. And while they weren't obviously bricks of cocaine, given his sense of smell, it was clear to him what was happening. Between the ocean and the drugs, the scents were strong, and that may be why he missed it.
If he were wearing his human face, he would have been frowning as he picked up the one other scent, one that he knew far too well, but it was already too late.
One of the workers crouched down in front of him. He didn't reach out to pat Donovan on the head, and he didn't smile. Instead, he said, “I know what you are.”
Then he pulled back his lips, pushed his face forward, and bared his fangs.
60
Eleri moved downward through the water, clearing her ears and checking her gauges until she finally hit a depth where she was comfortable. She'd learned from her first dive instructor that when everything was right, she would float up just a little with every breath in and sink the same amount with every breath out. At the right point, she could hang weightless in the middle of the water.
The waves were feisty today, the wind tossing around the little boat they’d rented. They dare not touch the Calypso. If it was being watched, someone would be able to follow them. If it was being tracked, that would be even easier. So they'd rented a cigarette boat, like the ones they'd seen out on the water. The goal was to look as much as possible like the ones coming out of the Miranda Industry docks .
Eleri was putting the pieces together and she was hoping that, after this dive, even more pieces would fall into place. Next to her, Jason and Hannah pulled alongside her in the vast, blue space. Each of them had small, specially designed whiteboards dangling from their wrists so they could communicate underwater. Eleri had warned them to erase the board as soon as they used it. Normally, dive instructors would leave their writing on the board, in case someone else needed a similar instruction. But she knew that, if they were captured, the writing could help indict them.
With her head to the side, her vision tunneled by the mask, and her regulator making its regular Darth Vader-like noises, she watched as Hannah and Jason motioned to get going. Though they usually loved to dive, it seemed to be finally occurring to them just how serious this was.
Eleri would have preferred to have Noah on this dive, but neither of the other agents was qualified. All the rules about bringing civilians into FBI cases had now been thrown completely out the window. They weren't even on US soil anymore. She could probably get extradited if she was arrested. But this time, she was afraid she wouldn’t get arrested. She would get killed. . . or they would.
