The Traffickers boh-9, page 20
part #9 of Badge of Honor Series
But now all the witnesses are dead.
Unless Becca knows something… but that’s a long shot, both (a) on the chance that she knew what was going on in the motel room and (b) if she actually survives and can tell us that she does.
Or doesn’t. Then we’re back to square one.
And that crazy sonofabitch coming into the hospital and pumping thirteen nine-millimeter rounds into Skipper.
What if he came back?
Thank God we beefed up the cops sitting on her.
Jesus! What next?
A big group of air travelers, easily thirty of them, came out from Concourse D. They were mostly teenagers. They had a handful of chaperones. All wore the same bright blue style of T-shirt. Payne could read some part of what had been silk-screened on the shirts, something about a church mission trip.
I do know what I’d like to happen next.
I’d like another shot at that sonofabitch who popped Skipper.
Not a gunshot… just a chance to bring him in.
First, because he doesn’t need to be on the street.
And second, because he damn sure knows something.
That’s obvious because he knows Skipper knew something. Why else target him for assassination? That’s what they were calling it at the scene in the ICU.
And that’s exactly what it was-thirteen rounds’ worth of nine-millimeter assassination.
Which means that the sonofabitch may very well know what went on in that motel room. Or, if not what went on in there in the last few minutes, hours, whatever, then who the players in there were.
And it’s damn sure no coincidence that the guy I shot and the two crispy critters from the motel are all Hispanic males.
Payne heard the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of hard rubber wheels rolling over an expansion joint in the tile floor. He turned to find a heavy-duty polymer custodial cart moving in his direction. It had two twenty-gallon plastic garbage cans on either end and the handles of a broom and feather dusters poking up between them. Pushing the cart was a hollow-faced Hispanic female. She looked to be maybe thirty. She stopped at a trash receptacle, and there went about her cleaning job quietly and effortlessly and, Payne noted, more or less completely unnoticed by anyone.
Then he was struck by the fact that that had been the exact same response he’d had to the Hispanic “orderly” at the Burn Unit when he saw him pushing the gurney into the corridor.
I didn’t give him a second thought.
Why is that? And is it good or bad?
I have no idea. But I know there’s something there I can’t put my finger on.
Where is that sonofabitch now?
How badly did I wound him?
There hadn’t been hardly any blood at the scene, either where he went down or where he carjacked that Chevy Caprice.
But maybe that one round did enough damage to get the critter to find an ER.
Payne knew that it did not matter which hospital emergency room. As long as it wasn’t, say, ten states away. But even ten states away there was a chance of catching the guy. It just would take longer.
And the hospitals did report, either officially or quietly, someone coming in with a gunshot wound. Even if-for whatever reason, say, some sanctimonious bastard at the intake desk took offense at the release of the scum’s “personal and privileged information” to the cops-not right away. There were others on staff who knew that almost all gunshot wounds were dirty and eventually would leak the info to the authorities. Not to mention the ones working security, who were either once cops or were cops moonlighting; they didn’t have to be convinced that keeping a critter off the street was all-important. They would call it in right then and there, damn any consequences.
Already the Philly Homicide detectives had begun distributing an Armed and Dangerous Alert to all of the hospital ERs within a fifty-mile radius. The single-page alert had a grainy black-and-white snapshot of the doer that had been pulled from the city-owned surveillance camera video on the exterior of the Temple University Hospital wall. (There had been as yet no luck with the hospital’s interior video equipment.) The Armed and Dangerous Alert also contained, of course, a description of the Hispanic male, including the detail that his wound had been inflicted by a.45-caliber bullet to the left leg at a point believed to be somewhere above the knee. And, of course, there was the directive to first call 911 in the event anyone requesting medical attention came even remotely close to the description on the alert. Then the hospital could contact the Philadelphia Police Department Homicide Unit at the Roundhouse via the information provided, or the responding cops could do so.
Payne then thought about Skipper Olde.
When Payne had gone back into the Temple Burn Unit, he had been surprised at his own reaction to the news that the doer had indeed pumped thirteen rounds into Skipper.
It didn’t really bother me one bit.
Knowing his chance of survival, maybe I had already dealt with the fact he probably wasn’t-what did Tony Harris tell me he thought? — that Skipper wasn’t going to make it to lunch.
And he sure as hell didn’t.
But my being unaffected… something weird about that.
I need to call Amy and ask her.
Amy was Amelia A. Payne, MD. His sister was the Joseph L. Otterby Professor of Psychiatry at the University of Pennsylvania.
If she doesn’t have an opinion, which would be the first time that ever happened, then she’ll find me someone who does.
Then another mental image flashed up, and Payne suddenly grinned.
That and see if someone in Amy’s medical circles can give me background on that gorgeous Dr. Amanda Law.
His mind wandered to the Texas Ranger. He checked his wristwatch. It showed three thirty. The airplane had been due in at three twenty-two.
Flight’s late. Nothing new there.
Payne had taken fifteen or so minutes at the Roundhouse to do a fast Internet search on the Rangers. And what little he’d found had been fascinating.
Real Wild Wild West stuff, he’d thought.
He’d copied the information into an e-mail and sent it to himself. Then he’d taken his cellular telephone and used it to check his e-mail, downloading a copy of the file to his phone.
He pulled out his phone now and opened the e-mail:
From: SGT M.M. Payne ‹payne.m@ppd.philadelphia.gov› Date: 09SEPT 1201 To: MMP (Mobile Email) ‹w.earp.45@gmail.com› Subject: Tx Rangers Notes Texas Rangers Sergeant Jim Byrth, Continental flight from IAH arriving PHL at 1522 hours, terminal D.
Snippets on Texas Rangers… ››› Began in its first form in 1823. Stephen F. Austin, developing settlements in the Mexican province of Tejas, called for men to “Range” the frontier to protect its people. Officially became Texas Rangers in 1835. ››› Austin recruited settlers from Europe and U.S. with the promise of land. Settlers agreed to become Mexican citizens, join the Catholic faith, speak Spanish. ››› Mexican law authorized Austin to form militia to protect settlements. The Rangers were formed to ward off raids by Tonkawa and Comanche Indians and others, to capture criminals, and to “range” against intruders. ››› “A Ranger is an officer able to handle any given situation without definite instructions from his commanding officer, or higher authority. This ability must be proven before a man becomes a Ranger.” ››› “One Riot, One Ranger”-In 1896, Texas Ranger Captain Bill McDonald sent to Dallas to stop an illegal prize-fight. The Dallas mayor met McDonald at Union Station, and said, “Where?re the other Rangers?”
McDonald replied, “There?s only one fight. Hell, ain?t I enough?” ››› Early Texas Ranger badges hammered out of silver Mexican five-peso coins. Badge is a five-point star within a ring engraved with oak leaves and an olive branch borrowed from the Texas Great Seal to represent strength (oak leaves) and peace (olive branch). ››› Senior Ranger Captain Frank H. Hamer-commissioned as a Texas Highway Patrolman-went after Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker. Tracked Bonnie and Clyde for more than three months before finding them in Louisiana. The outlaws fired-and were killed in the ensuing shoot-out on 23 May 1934. ››› Present Day: Rangers are a division of the Texas Department of Public Safety. The 134 Texas Rangers (as authorized by Texas Legislature) are posted in seven companies: Waco (headquarters), Garland (Dallas/Fort Worth), Houston, Lubbock, Midland, San Antonio, and McAllen. Administrative office in Austin. ››› Has been called one of the most effective investigative law-enforcement agencies in the world. ›››
Texas Rangers wear, as living symbols of a unique heritage, boots, white hats, and pistol belts of their predecessors.
Payne noticed movement and looked up from his phone.
There was another group coming out of Concourse D. But all Payne really noticed was a white Stetson cowboy hat seemingly floating down the concourse. It looked to be made of finely woven straw. Its crown was huge. The portion of the round brim over his ears spread out to resemble wide wings.
The Hat, Payne labeled it.
There were, of course, other passengers exiting ahead of and behind The Hat, but all Matt Payne could see of the Texas Ranger was The Hat.
And, boy, does it stand out.
Especially here in the Philly airport.
Should be interesting to see it in Center City…
Payne was standing with five others who were watching the passengers coming out of Concourse D and going their different directions. He saw The Hat make a slow sweep of the terminal as Byrth scanned the area, no doubt looking for him. Then Byrth made eye contact with him and walked purposefully toward him.
With the exception of The Hat and his pointy-toed western boots, James O. Byrth did not look unlike Matthew M. Payne.
Byrth, who appeared to be about thirty years old, stood right at six feet tall and weighed 170 pounds. He was lithely muscled. He had dark, intelligent eyes and kept his dark, thick hair trimmed conservatively short. He wore gray slacks that actually had cuffs and a sharp crease, a stiffly starched white button-down collared shirt, and a single-breasted navy blue blazer with gold buttons.
The Hat stepped up to Matt Payne.
“Marshal Earp, I presume,” Jim Byrth said with utter confidence. His distinct Texas drawl made it only more so.
“That’s interesting,” Payne replied dryly. “I was about to say the same to you. You forget your horse in the plane’s overhead bin?”
Byrth grinned. “No. I checked it. Should be waiting at the baggage claim.”
Wait, Payne thought. How the hell did he pick me out so quickly?
And confidently?
Liz Justice probably gave him a basic description.
But he knew without question that it was me.
“Okay, how’d you make me?” Payne said, holding out his right hand.
Byrth didn’t reply immediately, as if he was considering whether he would.
“Penatekas,” Byrth finally said, powerfully squeezing Payne’s hand as he looked him right in the eyes. He added: “Sergeant Jim Byrth, Texas Rangers, Company A.” He nodded once, and The Hat moved with great drama. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Sergeant Matt Payne, Philadelphia Police Department, Homicide.”
“I know.”
“‘Penatekas’?” Payne repeated, stumbling over the pronunciation.
Byrth nodded again, and again The Hat accentuated the movement.
“One of the warrior bands of the fierce Comanches,” Byrth explained solemnly. “Back when Texas was the Mexican province of Tejas, early Rangers learned from them their various methods of how to tell everything about a person simply by knowing what to look for.”
Payne stared at him.
He’s pulling my chain.
Or is he?
That “Mexican province of Tejas” stuff I read about. And those Comanches were ruthless.
“Fascinating,” Payne said. “What sort of methods?”
“Well,” Byrth began, stone-faced, “they were nomads, and roaming the plains. When they hunted down a buffalo, they had a spiritual ceremony and prayed for its soul. They honored the great animal by letting no part of it go to waste. The flesh they cured for food. The skins became blankets and clothing and other protection. Even the cojones were used for special purposes. The cojones were dried and ground and consumed for the powers to observe. In particular, to observe people, and even more in particular, to observe enemies.”
“Co-what?”
“Co-hone-ees,” Byrth repeated, this time phonetically. “That’s actually the Spanish word. The Indians had their own, which varied from band to band.”
“And that’s how you knew it was me? With these co-hone-ees?”
Still stone-faced, Byrth stared Payne in the eyes. Payne felt that he was reading him. Then Byrth nodded once. The Hat mimicked the motion.
“Co-hone-ees is Spanish?” Payne said. “For what?”
“ ‘Testicles.’ ”
Byrth grinned.
“Actually, it translates closer to ‘balls.’ ”
Then Byrth wordlessly pulled out his cell phone and punched at its touch-screen.
“That, and then there’s this.”
He held it out to Payne, showing him a big bright glass screen that filled the whole face of the device.
There was a digitized photograph on the screen.
Payne grunted.
He immediately recognized it as one that four years before had run on the front page of The Philadelphia Bulletin. It showed a bloody-faced Officer Matthew M. Payne, pistol in hand, standing over a fatally wounded felon in an alleyway. And it had had the screaming headline: “Officer M.M. Payne, 23, The Wyatt Earp of the Main Line.”
“Your reputation precedes you, Marshal. And, I might add, lives online for all to see.”
Homicide Sergeant Matthew Payne’s eyes went between the phone and Byrth’s face. He shook his head.
Shit. He got me. And good.
Then he burst out laughing.
I think we’re going to get along just fine.
“Nice job, Jim.”
Byrth smiled.
Payne added: “But just remember that payback is hell.”
Now Byrth laughed aloud and said, “Liz Justice said you were a good sport. I’ll deal with the payback.”
THREE
D/E Connector Philadelphia International Airport Wednesday, September 9, 3:10 P.M.
Juan Paulo Delgado sat at a rental Dell laptop computer inside the Road Warrior Connection kiosk.
He reached into his camo shorts and pulled out the flash drive. He stuck it in a USB slot on the side of the laptop, and simultaneously hit the CONTROL, ALT, and DELETE keys. When the screen went blank, he held the CONTROL and Z keys simultaneously. The computer restarted, loading the secure program from the flash drive that mirrored his laptop in the safe of his converted warehouse loft.
As the computer booted up, he wondered if there actually was something to what Jorge Aguilar had suggested in his text message.
Did Los Zetas have anything to do with the kid’s disappearance?
The Zetas, led by Heriberto “The Executioner” Lazcano, were mercenaries working as the enforcement arm of the narco-trafficking Gulf Cartel. They numbered some five hundred men, and were heavily armed and well-trained. The majority of them had been commandos in the Mexican Army’s Grupo Aerom?vil de Fuerzas Especiales, which, ironically, went after members of the drug cartels. They were ruthless and fearless. And what they could not or would not do-assassinations inside the United States, for example-they hired others, most notably gangbangers, to carry out for them.
The Gulf Cartel-if not the biggest of the Mexican drug-trafficking organizations (MDTOs), then one of the richest-was based due south of Brownsville, Texas, on the Gulf of Mexico, thus the source of the cartel’s name. Since the 1970s, the Gulf Cartel had trafficked pot, coke, meth, and smack into the United States. And they taxed anyone who used their “plazas,” or smuggling routes. The Zetas acted as their lethal collection agency for slow- or no-payers.
Thus, Juan Paulo Delgado knew that the Zetas were not to be fucked with.
He also knew that, compared to the gangs to whom the cartel wholesaled drugs for resale in the United States, he was a very, very small player. He operated on the fringes of what to the cartels was a multibillion-dollar-per-year enterprise. As long as he kept paying the plaza taxes that the Gulf Cartel levied on him, and he didn’t step on their toes, and he didn’t try to become a bigger player, he would more or less be left alone with his crumbs.
Which meant that it had been a damned dumb move to pump forty-two rounds-two of 9-millimeter and forty of 5.7-millimeter-into his former business associate in that South Dallas crack house. Not because it was wrong to take out the bastard who owed him for the kilo of black tar smack. But because that property had also been an occasional stash house for the Zetas.
Not long afterward, he’d learned on the street that they were not exactly pleased that El Gato (a) had drawn unwanted attention to the stash/crack house and (b) had made the mess with what once had been their P90 Fabrique Nationale submachine gun.
Like toothpaste from a tube, there of course was no way to put fired bullets back in a gun. The damage was done. But Delgado had a hard time believing that any of that actually warranted the anger of the Zetas.
You never know, though, what sets those fuckers off.
Or whom they’ll hire to pull the trigger.
They could’ve grabbed the kid-or had him grabbed-to send a message.
Or it could be the kid’s just out getting laid…
For two days?
He shook his head, then clicked on the Firefox browser icon to connect to the Internet.
He signed in to his Gmail account. There was nothing new to read except junk mail. He deleted that. He then decided that while he was signed in, he would just send an e-mail to Jorge Aguilar. Typing took less effort than thumbing and, like text messages, the e-mails also went to Jorge’s cellular phone.
He opened a new window and wrote:
From: jjd ‹4.n.dallas.high@gmail.com›
Date: 09SEPT 1520
