Chapter Thirty-Two

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Belle Glade sits near the middle of the state, on the southeast shore of Lake Okeechobee. The horizon low and flat. Cane elds forever. Plumes of dark smoke rose in various directions, some from intentional burns of harvested fields, others out the stacks of sugar-processing plants. Below the town was a prison camp. A yellow crop duster swooped, the one that terrorists with rashes on their hands had tried to hire. To the north, an uninviting, single-row motel with a leaking tar roof on the side of Route 715. Scraggly bushes, termite damage, a cracked office window fixed with masking tape.

The motel was almost always closed, except when the government needed it. Because it owned it.

Currently, no vacancy. Lights on in all eight rooms, but the front sign remained dark. Agents in T-shirts and jeans stood watch outside, pretending to work on a carburetor. They didn’t blend in. People of their sort never put up in the glades unless there’s a bad reason. All locals avoided them, except sheriff’s deputies, who knew something was up during their first stay but couldn’t get to the bottom of it despite hours of questioning in the parking lot. Almost blew the safe house. So feds began bringing tackle boxes and towing bass boats. Near every deputy fished that lake.

In the middle room, Randall Sheets rocked nervously on the edge of a bed. They’d just reeled him back from Detroit for his big day of testimony. A digital clock said five A.M. Ramirez sat facing him. “It’ll all be over in a few hours.”

“Can’t come soon enough.”

“Just remember what we talked about. The prosecutor will guide you through everything. Keep your answers direct and tell the truth. We’ll put them away.”

“I don’t see how my testimony can do that. I think the guys I was dealing with were at the bottom.”

“We have another witness. Management insulates themselves by staying away while the lower rungs get their hands dirty. Between the two of you…”-he interlaced his fingers-“… we connect the whole operation.”

“Will… they be there?”

“Not in the grand jury. Not even their defense attorneys. You have nothing to worry about.”

Three spaced knocks on the door.

An agent standing next to Ramirez-the one with the machine gun-went over and checked out the window. He opened the door.

Six more agents entered. “We’re ready.”

Everyone put on dark windbreakers with hoods. Ramirez handed one to Randall.

“What’s this for?”

“Just put it on.”

“Wait,” said Randall, looking around a room of identically dressed people. “Snipers?”

“Just an abundance of caution. Put it on.”

A string of headlights filled the dark parking lot. Engines running. Vehicles in a perfect line, facing the exit.

Room number 4 opened, and windbreakers ran for the convoy.

Pop, pop, pop. Sparks on the pavement. Pinging against fenders.

“Where’s Randall?” yelled Ramirez. “Get him down!”

Agents flattened the witness and formed a pile.

Pop, pop. Ping, ping.

“Where the hell’s that coming from?”

“Over there!” An agent braced behind a Bronco and returned fire toward distant muzzle flashes. “The cane field!”

“Get him in the car!” Ramirez slapped the trunk. “Go!”

The front half of the motorcade sped east into the waning night. The rest of the team remained behind, raking sugarcane with overwhelming firepower.

The convoy reached Twenty Mile Bend, dashboard needles at the century mark. Randall wanted to see outside, but they were sitting on him again. The approaching dawn brightened over Southern Boulevard, where they were joined by helicopters for the final turnpike leg to the federal courthouse in Miami-Dade County. But back then it was just Dade.

They brought Randall through a secure garage gate in back. He entered the courtroom and took the stand next to a jury with less interesting mornings.

Randall Sheets was, as they say, the perfect witness. Steady, confident testimony. Even he was surprised by his grace under pressure.

Indictments came down.

Across south Florida, a series of predawn raids.

The front door of a Spanish stucco house opened. The SWAT team brought Hector, Luis, and Juanita out in handcuffs-“Call the lawyers!”

Same scene at five other locations, two dozen associates in all. Everyone was booked. And bonded out just as quickly by one of Florida’s top law firms. TV crews waited in the street. “Is it true you’re kingpins?”

An agent in the Miami FBI office picked up a phone and dialed.

A cell rang somewhere south of Miami. “Hello?” A hand quickly went over it, and the person walked outside. “Are you crazy calling me now?… No, I can’t talk. They’re circling the wagons. Everyone’s under suspicion… What I’m saying is they know you’ve got an informant in the family… How can you say there’s no way? We’ve got someone inside with you… I don’t know who our guy is, sheriff, janitor, anyone. Point is that’s how they must have found out… I understand you’d really like the name of our informant-I just need more time… Don’t even joke about taking back immunity. I’ll contact you as soon as I hear something. And never call me on this line again!” The phone slammed shut.

Another phone rang. Another person answered. “… Yes, I can talk… I see… You think you know who the informant in our family is? Very good, who?… You’ve only narrowed it to two people? That’s not good… I realize it’s a huge risk getting at the files right now. That’s what we pay you for… No, time’s already run out. Haven’t you been watching the news?… Okay, what are the two names?”

THE PRESENT

Four A.M.

Serge’s surveillance had synchronized his watch with the rounds of local police.

The latest squad car rolled toward him. And kept going. Serge jumped from a hedge on the side of A1A.

Pedro was already bound and gagged in his seat. Serge popped open a toolbox. He began loosening hex-head bolts with his largest socket. Some were stuck from the years, needing WD-40 and a hammer banging on the wrench handle.

Minutes later, all the right bolts lay on the ground. Serge’s wrist-watch said to dive in the bushes. Another cruiser drove by.

Quiet again. Serge dashed back.

Stifled screams under the gag. Serge untied it.

“Please! Dear God! Whatever you’re thinking… I’ll, I’ll pay you. Cash, cocaine, anything!”

“The name,” said Serge.

“What name?”

“Who you’re after.”

“They’ll kill me.”

Serge turned to walk away. “Suit yourself.”

“Okay, okay. Andy McKenna.”

“Andy? He’s just a kid. What’s he ever done to you?”

“Nothing. It’s his dad…” And Pedro laid it all out from soup to nuts.

“How many of you are there?”

“Four.”

“Good, very good,” said Serge. “Now, who’s behind it?”

Silence.

“Come onnnnnnnnnn…“ Serge gave him a buddy jab in the arm. ”You’re doing great.”

“Guillermo.”

“Guillermo?”

“But he’s just the crew leader for Madre.”

“Wait… but… you don’t actually mean the Madre.”

Pedro nodded.

“I remember reading about her back when Miami Vice was still on the air.“ Serge blew a deep breath through pursed lips.”Thought for sure she’d be dead by now.”

“Far from it,” said Pedro.

“So history comes full circle.” Serge stroked his uncharacteristic two-day stubble. “What impressed me is how you’ve been able to track him. Students on spring break are like stray cats. But I have a theory.”

Pedro clammed up again. Then: “I’d rather you kill me.”

“So it is what I think?”

“They keep me in the dark on that. You have to believe me.”

“I do. Does this Guillermo have a cell number?”

Another nod.

Serge got out a scrap of paper and pen. “Ready when you are.”

Pedro rattled off digits. Serge stuck the note in his pocket. “Most excellent. See how easy that was?”

“So you’re going to let me go?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Serge replaced the gag, then whistled in awe. “And how!”

Another cruiser rolled up the street.

When it was gone, Serge poked his head from the bushes and walked to a breaker box…