M.I.A. Hunter: Miami War Zone Read online

  "First," Flores said, "what is the present?"

  "The don's D.E.A. man. I've got him."

  "Crazy Charlie did not mind letting him go?"

  At the thought of where Crazy Charlie was right then, Feliz smiled. "He may have minded at the time. He doesn't mind much of anything right now, though."

  "I thought as much. And the problem?"

  "I don't know where to deliver the present. You know the deal with the Colombians. 'Don't call us, we'll call you.'"

  "Safest for both sides, we always agreed."

  "Yeah, but not very convenient right now."

  "Yes, and we cannot take out an ad in the newspaper."

  "No."

  "So what do we do about it?"

  "Thinking has always been your area. Can't you come up with anything?"

  Flores smiled, a regular sunbeam. "It is just possible that I can."

  "Nothing?"

  "Nothing," Carol said dejectedly. "Either it's not a real company, or it's not registered in any of the files I can access.

  "Then that's it. Wofford's a dead man. We can't get to him."

  Carol looked up. "Maybe Feliz did take him to his own house. After all, that's how Crazy Charlie had him. Right at home."

  "And you see what it got Crazy Charlie. No, Feliz isn't that stupid, no matter what else he is."

  "I can check every holding Feliz has, or that the police think he has. Then we can try to narrow it down."

  "That could take a lifetime. We've got only a few hours. I can feel it."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Everglades.

  No one knows for sure what the name means, though some believe it to be a corruption of the phrase "river glades," an expression perhaps dating from the time of the first English explorers of the area.

  Or maybe it was because the glades seemed to go on forever.

  Four thousand square miles of mangroves, willows, bays, palms, and saw grass. A swamp one hundred miles long and forty miles wide, stretching from Lake Okeechobee almost to the southern tip of Florida, filled with alligators and fish, birds and turtles, but very few human beings.

  And the few human beings who live in the Everglades are not noted for their friendly and outgoing ways.

  Some of them are Seminole Indians, descendants of the tribe whose remnants fled to the 'Glades in the nineteenth century and fought the U.S. Army to a standstill, hiding and fighting in the grass and trees until the military's manpower and monetary resources were almost exhausted.

  Others are in the 'Glades for less lofty reasons, fugitives for one reason or another from "straight" society.

  And some are there because the grass and trees, along with a bit of artful camouflage, can serve as an impenetrable cover for illegal activities. That is why Jesús Blanco, nationality: Colombian, had located his drug-processing lab there, safe from all prying eyes and vulnerable only to a carefully conducted air search, and then only if the pilot actually had a pretty good idea of what he was looking for and where to look.

  Blanco had searched for the location for quite a while before settling on what he considered the perfect spot, accessible by airboat but so well away from any lanes of open water that the chances of anyone's stumbling upon it by accident were infinitesimally small.

  Blanco was up early, discussing with Jaime del Rio and Diego Gomez the possibilities of setting up their own network for the selling of the lab's finished product, especially in view of the latest news, given big play on the local Miami stations that morning. Drug wars always received wide coverage, even if no one is quite sure about who is killing who, or why.

  "I still say it's the fuckin' D.E.A.," del Rio stated. "I mean, look at who's gettin' knocked off. Don Vito, our bunch, the Cubanos, and now somebody's knocked over Crazy Charlie's place. Who else could it be?"

  "It is almost like World War III," Gomez said. "And we don't even know who started it."

  "But we know who did not," Blanco reminded them. "We are merely on the fringes. Admittedly, it is dangerous to be even there, but this can work to our advantage."

  "I don't see how," del Rio complained. "There's dead guys all over the streets. The cops will be crawling around thicker than flies."

  "True," Blanco admitted. "For a short time. But then things will return to normal. They always do."

  Gomez agreed. "No war can last forever. But how can this one help us? We have already suffered."

  "We can hire more men and make more cocaine," Blanco said. "Can't you see what is happening?"

  Neither del Rio nor Gomez had an answer.

  Blanco sighed and explained patiently. "There will clearly be a disruption of the flow of drugs. Who is going to deal if the Cubans and the Mob are fighting and killing one another? All we have to do is wait until the shooting dies down. By then most of the possible competition will be dead. They are doing us the favor of killing one another, and we should let them do it. When it is all over, we move in, set up our own network, and have the drug trade all to ourselves. From the paste in Colombia, to the cocaine we make here, to the deals on the street."

  "Sort of like a monopoly," del Rio said. "I like it."

  "It should work out," Gomez added. "As you say, most of the competition is already dead."

  "I'm glad you agree," Blanco said. "Let us consider the details."

  In the last few hours, Ramón Flores had managed not only to learn the location of the Colombian's drug lab, he had also found out the radio frequency by which Blanco and his crew monitored messages from their contacts in the city.

  "I don't say you've done something that's impossible," Feliz told him, "but I don't see how you did it. You are absolutely certain this is solid information? You are sure your source knows what he's talking about?"

  "Absolutely," Flores assured him.

  "I believe you, then. But tell me how."

  "You know that I have a few contacts on the police force?"

  "Who doesn't? I got contacts all the way up to Washington, and so does everybody in town." Feliz didn't see the point.

  "Of course. But it just so happens that this time it is my contact who was in the right place at the right time."

  "So tell me the time and the place."

  "One of the Colombians survived Crazy Charlie's attack on us tonight. He survived long enough for the authorities to question him in the hospital."

  Feliz leaned forward. The drugs were taking hold and the pain was leaving his hip and hand. "What did he tell them?"

  "Enough. More than enough. He was a religious man, and it was clear to him that he did not have long to live. He wanted to make things right before his death, but the police would not call a priest until he answered a few questions. My man was assigned only as a guard, but he overheard most of what was said."

  "And what was that?" Feliz tried not to demonstrate his impatience. Sometimes it was best to let Ramón tell the story at his own pace.

  "He gave them the frequency and the location, as I have told you. And the policeman gave it to me."

  "So we can get in touch with them and tell them that we have Wofford and that we're ready to make the trade."

  "Of course. I think it might be best to be well on our way there before we tell them that we are coming. Unless you want to meet on neutral ground."

  "You see what happened the last time we tried that," Feliz said angrily. "This time, we go to them, but we take a few of our men with us. When we get in, we offer Wofford to them. They can take him or leave him, but I want them to know we're ready to keep our side of the deal."

  "They won't like it that we know the location of their lab. They have worked hard to keep it hidden."

  "That's another thing we'll have on our side. They'll see that we're coming in alone, and we'll let them know that we can keep their secret. They'll have to trust us."

  Flores was doubtful. "I hope you're right. Otherwise, we could be in real trouble." He was already thinking of ways to avoid the trip.

  "Sure, I'm right. Why w
ouldn't they trust us?"

  "You never know," Flores said. "You never know."

  The information about the Colombian drug lab went into the police computers. Carol accessed it shortly thereafter. "I've got something," she called out.

  Stone went over to the monitor. "What is it?"

  She showed him. "Could this be what we're looking for?"

  "I don't know. If we can get there in time, it may be. Feliz may be taking Wofford there, or he may already have taken him. Or we may be completely wrong. I just don't know."

  "Sometimes you just gotta go for it," Hog yelled from across the room.

  "He's right," Stone remarked. "And we're right back at the beginning. We have to go for it, because it's all we've got."

  "Look at it this way," Carol said. "So far, just in the time that we've been in Miami, two of the top Mob men in the city are out of commission. One is dead, and the other is missing. There's open warfare between two or even three factions of the drug world. Jack Wofford could never have accomplished that much in the course of his regular job, not in years. Some good has come out of this."

  Stone nodded in agreement. "I see what you mean. And now we have a shot at doing something about the biggest drug lab in the area, maybe even shutting down the drug trade for months."

  "I can think of one hang-up," Carol said thoughtfully.

  "What?"

  "The police."

  Stone almost laughed. "By the time they manage to get the proper warrants, work out the jurisdiction, and organize a SWAT unit, we'll be in and have Jack out, if he's there."

  "Or," Hog growled glumly to no one in particular, "we'll be three body bags full of dead meat."

  Rosales had also been made aware of the latest breakthrough. He called Allbright to discuss it, though it was none of Allbright's business, strictly speaking.

  "And what are you going to do about it?" Allbright wanted to know after he'd heard. "What about our D.E.A. pal from Washington?"

  "Williams? I'm sure he's cognizant of this intel."

  Allbright snorted. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

  "You're right."

  "So what are you going to tell him?"

  "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

  "He'll have your balls if he finds out."

  "Who's going to tell him?"

  "Not me," Allbright assured him. "Are you going to hit the lab?"

  "Yes, but it will take awhile to set up. And it will have to be done very secretly."

  Allbright knew what that meant. There were too many ears in the department, and if any leak got out at all, the lab would be deserted when a strike force got there. Or it would be so well defended that the cost in lives would almost make the risk not worth taking.

  Jesús Blanco was already thinking about doubling his number of sentries, but not because he feared the police. He was irate about the radio message he had just received.

  "But how did the fuckin' Cubanos find out where we are? That's what I want to know," del Rio growled. "Somebody needs to get his tongue cut out and stuffed in his ass."

  Gomez was more philosophical. "It had to happen. There were too many who knew. Sooner or later, someone would tell. I am not surprised."

  "You're right," Blanco said, calming a little. "And at least they have let us know that they are coming. We can prepare for them. If there are any little tricks planned, they will not have a chance. I want double the usual number of men watching the fence."

  "I'll see to it," del Rio said. "Why don't we just let the Cubanos get to the gate and blow them to hell?"

  "Because there is just a chance that they can help us. Enrique Feliz says that he has something that will show his good faith, that will prove he is not our enemy. He wants to assure us that he is peaceful."

  "And you believe him?" Gomez asked.

  "I am not sure. But we will at least see what he has. Once he is inside here with us, we can do what we want. If we like what we see, then we can carry on in the old way. If we do not . . ."

  Del Rio made a gesture that indicated the slitting of a throat. There was a hopeful grin on his face.

  "Exactly," Blanco told him.

  Wofford knew he was in the Everglades. And that was all he knew.

  His hands had been retied in front, and he had been hauled from the warehouse in the back of a car. After quite a journey, he had been taken from the car and carried down a rough wooden dock. There were three airboats at the end of the dock. Wofford was thrown onto the floor of the first one.

  The airboats were by far the best way to travel in the Everglades. They had flat bottoms and could skim over the surface of the shallow water and even over the surface of most of the land masses they might encounter, though "land" in the 'Glades was a relative term. Sometimes something that looked pretty solid was really just a mass of roots, dirt, leaves, and grass that was only loosely held together.

  The airboats were powered by aircraft engines for the most part, and propelled by huge propellers in the back, shielded by wire cages. A rudder in back of the cage controlled the direction.

  He was almost deafened when the uncovered engine was started. Then he was forced roughly to the bottom of the boat by the acceleration.

  There were others in the boat, but Wofford could see mostly their feet from his prone position. They were sitting on wooden benches, and they had all fastened their seat belts before the boat started. Airboats have a tendency to bounce around a lot, especially when running over obstructions in the water.

  They stayed in the open water for a while. He could see the sky above and only an occasional tree branch. Then they turned into an area of ten-foot-high sawgrass, which went whipping past the boat at amazing speed. The men sitting on the benches leaned in to avoid getting cut.

  He was sure that they must be talking, but he couldn't hear them over the roar of the engine.

  They came into the clear, then hit something with the prow. Wofford bounced up and landed on the bottom again. The boat shuddered as it passed over whatever more-or-less solid mass had been in their path. Tree branches thrashed at the side of the boat.

  After that they went through a series of left and right turns, through grass and more trees, through open water again, then more grass.

  Finally the boat came to a halt in the middle of a sea of grass, the engine cut back to an ear-popping idle.

  One of the men above Wofford was yelling, yelling so loud that Wofford could hear him in spite of the ringing in his ears. It occurred to Wofford that the others might be having difficulty in hearing also.

  "You sonofabitch!" the man yelled. "I thought you said you knew where you were going!" The voice was coming from another boat, so there were several.

  "I do!" someone yelled back. "I know my way around in here just fine. But I don't know where this place is you're telling me about, and I ain't exactly up on findin' places by map coordinates. Now you just let me think about this for a minute."

  "Think, my ass! You either find us that place, or you're gator bait!"

  "I wouldn't talk that way if I was you, mister," the second voice said. "Tell the truth, I don't think you and your boys could find your way back to where we started from in six weeks. Hell, in a year."

  The first man didn't say anything.

  "So you better just relax and get hold of yourself. I'll find where you want to go a whole lot sooner than that. But if anything happens to me, you'd best remember that I ain't the only one who'd be gator bait. Wouldn't anybody in any one of these boats see downtown Miami again."

  "All right, all right," the first man said. "Forget it. Take your time. It's just that I'm in a hurry."

  "Don't worry. I'll get you there. I bet that fella you got tied up there ain't in such a rush."

  "Forget about him. I'm paying you damn good money to find a place and take me there. Not to ask questions."

  "I didn't ask no questions. That ain't my way. And I'll earn my pay. Just keep your britches on."

  Enrique Feliz kept hi
s britches on, but his impatience burned within him, eating at his guts.

  The D.E.A. had men who knew the 'Glades, but Stone couldn't go to them. He could locate them through his Fort Bragg connections, but he didn't want to be tied in to Williams in any way. He wanted someone he could trust and someone who could keep his mouth shut.

  After talking to Fort Bragg on the telephone, Carol thought she had finally located the right man. "He's someone's second cousin, or something like that. Anyway, he's supposed to be reliable."

  "We'll try him," Stone said. "You guys ready?"

  "Right, Sarge," Hog growled. He and Loughlin were outfitted with the same weapons that they had taken to Crazy Charlie's.

  "Good. Hog, you take the car. You know what to do. Loughlin and I will go in by airboat. We'll have a guide, but we may need you to do the locating. This place is bound to be well hidden."

  "I'll do what I can," the big East Texan assured him. He left by the front door.

  "What about us?" Loughlin asked.

  "Is there still someone watching this place all the time?" Stone asked Carol.

  "I'm sure there is. We never see him, but that's the way it should be."

  "Get him in here," Stone demanded. "We need to use his car."

  The car was parked two blocks away. Stone sent the watcher to fetch it while he and Loughlin talked about their objective.

  "We want Jack Wofford," Stone reminded the Brit. "Nobody else matters a damn. I don't care if we kill everybody there. And if they don't have Wofford, well, we level the place. In fact, we do that even if they do have Wofford. We don't want it ever to be used as a drug lab again."

  "Got it," Loughlin snapped. "I've added the explosives to my pack. When we leave, there won't be much left. I promise you that."

  "Good. That's the way I want it."

  Stone turned to Carol. "You're our communications link. If anything goes wrong, we'll let you know. You tell Rosales. Be sure he knows the whole story. Sooner or later, his men will get in there. I just hope we can save them the trouble."

  "You will," Carol told him. There was no trace of doubt in her voice.