Chapter 7

The FBI had a sighting, and Agent Andie Henning was flying down the turnpike at ninety miles per hour, her unmarked vehicle's removable blue beacon flashing in the early evening darkness. U.S. Marshals and the FBI SWAT unit had already surrounded the house in Homestead. Andie made a mental note of the fact that the address was less than four miles from Theo Knights bar. The anonymous source in the BOLO – "Be on the Look-Out" – had apparently been reliable.

"I'm five minutes away" she said into her encrypted cell. Police radio wasn't an option. It was well known that fugitives sometimes monitored stolen radios to stay one step ahead of law enforcement.

Andie's adrenaline was pumping, but she was again chiding herself over that awkward conversation with Jack. Not that she would have liked to redo it. She never should have gone there, period. It was just her luck that Jack Swyteck was one of the names on the list of "fugitive's friends and contacts" compiled by the task force. Her boss had jumped all over that in their multi-jurisdictional meeting.

"Henning knows Swyteck from the Salazar kidnapping case," the ASAC had told the group. "You think he would talk straight with you, Andie?"

"I… I suppose."

"I only ask because he is a criminal defense lawyer. I imagine he'd be more inclined to talk to you than just any old cop showing up at his door."

"Swyteck used to be a prosecutor. I'm sure someone at the U.S. Attorney's Office knows him just as well as-"

"Andie, time is of the essence here. Can you talk to him or not?"

No. Absolutely not. Not gonna happen. "Sure," she'd said. "I'll talk to him."

Idiot!

She blew past the last turnpike tollbooth and took the final exit. East-west traffic was heavy on Campbell Drive, but she had to kill her flashing blue light so as not to alert the world – and the fugitive – of the sudden arrival of law enforcement. She weaved her way down the four-lane road as fast as possible without a police strobe beacon. The tires squealed as she cut a hard right turn at the final major intersection. Moments later, she spotted the law enforcement presence in a dimly lit school parking lot. Her car stopped so abruptly that the front bumper nearly kissed the pavement. Andie jumped out and ran toward the SWAT van. Supervisory Deputy Steve Miller of the U.S. Marshals Service was there to meet her. The FBI SWAT leader was with him, dressed in full tactical regalia and toting an M-16 rifle.

"What's the situation?" said Andie.

Deputy Miller was a former marine officer, and he still carried the look so completely that, instinctively, Andie almost wanted to salute him.

"House is two blocks east," said Miller. "We're staging from here to maintain the element of surprise."

"Do you have authorization to breach?"

"Yes. A neighbor spotted a black male inside."

"Have you ruled out that it might be the owner or a repair-man?

"Definitely," said Miller. "The house has been completely vacant. The owner moved to Plant City. I spoke to her by phone myself. Whoever is inside doesn't belong there."

"Is the subject alone?"

"We don't know yet. But now that you're here, any handoff from tactical assault to hostage negotiation will be as seamless as possible."

Andie was one of several trained negotiators in the Miami field office, but the Salazar kidnapping case – where she'd met Jack Swyteck – had firmly established her as the top dog. "I don't want to negotiate for a dead hostage. We need to verify whether he's alone before you breach."

"Techies are snaking listening devices through the attic vents as we speak. We're doing infrared scan, too. Should have the results by the time you suit up."

Andie retrieved her Kevlar vest from her car and put it on. Another SWAT member brought her a helmet, thigh guards, and a bone mike that would link her to the tactical team. She wouldn't be part of the SWAT breach, but preparing for all hell to break loose was part of Negotiation Training 101.

The task force leader was speaking into his bone mike as Andie approached the SWAT van. Miller said to her, "Infrared shows a warm one in the bathroom. No movement. Appears to be sleeping. Good time for a breach."

"Infrared isn't infallible," said Andie. That was experience talking – the Salazar kidnapping case again. Would all these little Swyteck reminders just go away, please?

Miller said, "SWAT's going in. If I'm wrong about him being alone in there and a hostage standoff develops, you're here to normalize the situation."

"Pick up the pieces" might have been a better way to put it. Even so, Andie couldn't disagree with the decision. "Let's do it."

THE MOMENT THEO returned from the Keys and his "personal business" – it was about the Prince Albert for Trina – Cy had that unmistakable Uncle Cyrus look on his face. Theo knew he was in big trouble.

"In here." Cy grabbed him by the elbow and practically dragged him into the back room. He closed the door and locked it.

Theo wanted to say something, but suddenly he felt like a ten-year-old boy again, and his uncle was ready to slap him upside the head for backtalk of any sort. Uncle Cyrus had been the Knight brothers' one and only source of badly needed discipline.

"What the hell you been doin' with that Isaac Reems?"

"I ain't been doin' nothin' with him." A grown man with balls the size of globes, and out pops the voice of a scared child.

Cy opened the cabinet and threw the orange jumpsuit on the desk. "What do you call this}99

Theo knew immediately what it was. "Where'd you find that?"

"Shoved in the corner, behind your big stack of beer kegs."

Theo drew a deep breath, trying not to take the anger he felt toward Isaac and misdirect it toward his uncle. "I know what you must be thinkin'."

"Oh, you got no idea what I'm thinkin'. Why on God's green earth would you help that loser?"

"I ain't helpin' him. Isaac broke into the stockroom, stole my gun and my money. Tried to make me help him. I told him to get lost. Then I called the cops."

Cy grimaced, as if wanting to believe but not quite able. "I ain't an old fool. The man didn't leave here naked. You gave clothes to a fugitive."

"No way. He came here wearing old rags. We got migrants around here who work the tomato fields. I'm runnin' the homeless out of my parking lot every night. He probably hit one, changed clothes after he broke in, and shoved the jumpsuit into a corner."

"You told all this to the cops?"

"You know cops and me don't mix. Four years on death row for somethin' you didn't do has a way of teachin' you that. Jack met with them. He told them everything."

Cy seemed willing to accept that, or perhaps he just didn't see the point of arguing anymore.

Theo said, "Now that I think about it, Isaac left that jumpsuit behind for a reason. He said if I called the cops, he'd tell them I was the one who helped him escape in the first place. Good thing Jack said no way to a police search inside the building. They would have found this, just like Isaac knew they would. Then I'd really have some explaining to do."

Cy stepped around the desk and stood closer to Theo, a soulful expression on his wrinkled face. His voice no longer had an edge to it, only concern. "Do not reach back into the old 'hood and help that scum," he said. "The past will hurt you, boy. It will cut you open and laugh in your face."

"I ain't helpin' him."

"Swear it." He grabbed Theo's hand and placed it palm down, flat on his chest.

Theo could feel the old man's heart pounding.

His uncle said, "Swear to me, boy. Swear that you won't help that snake."

Even if his life had depended on it, Theo could not have turned away. Never before had he seen that look in his uncle's eyes – such a powerful combination of fear and love.

"I promise," said Theo. "In fact, I'll call Jack now and tell him to hand over the jumpsuit to the cops."

Cy grabbed the jumpsuit before Theo could, then shoved it against his nephew's chest. Their eyes locked for a period of time that seemed much longer than it was, neither man saying a word. Finally, Cy broke the silence, Theo's comment about four wasted years on death row seeming to have carried the day.

"Burn it," he said.

“ON THREE WE'RE GREEN,” SWAT leader Michael Penski whispered, his voice breaking the radio squelch in Andie's ear.

Andie was in a cover position behind a coral-rock fence across the street from the target residence. She didn't live and work beneath the SWAT rainbow, but she knew that yellow was code for the final position of cover and concealment. Green was the assault, the moment of life and death, literally. With the aid of night vision, she watched the well-choreographed SWAT movements unfold in a wave of stealth.

Penski counted down in a calm voice that reflected years of training: one… two… three. The word "three" unleashed a cacophony in Andie's headset, the sound of shattered glass and a blown-out door. She braced herself for the crack of gunfire, but she heard only the shouts of Special Agent Penski and his team as they swept through the house.

"Down on the floor, now!"

Andie's radio crackled with more shouting. Moments later, the front door opened and Penski gave a hand signal as he announced over the radio, "All clear."

Andie ran across the lawn and hurried through the front door. Penski and another SWAT agent were standing outside the bathroom. Their night-vision goggles were up, and the ceiling light had been switched on. Through the open doorway, Andie saw an old man kneeling on the bathroom floor beside the tub. His hands were untied, though the torn rags that had bound them together were still dangling from one wrist. A saliva-soaked gag lay atop the sink. He wore only his boxer shorts and was apparently unharmed. But he was sobbing uncontrollably, staring down at what appeared to be a small white dog.

It was little more than a blood-soaked stain on the white tile floor.

"He smashed Puffy with a hammer," the old man said, his voice quaking.

Andie could only presume that Puffy had been the "strange noise coming from the house" that the next-door neighbor had reported to 911.

The man continued. "He said he'd do the same to me, if I made a move before daylight."

Andie was a dog lover herself, but no matter how distraught the old man was, she needed to get Reems's photograph in front of him. She carried it with her at all times, as did everyone on the task force." Is this the man who did that?"

He only glanced at the photograph. "I saw his picture on television this morning. It was the guy who busted out of prison last night. He even stole my clothes."

Andie got a description of the clothing, then asked, "Did he have a gun?"

"I didn't see one."

"How long ago did he leave?" Andie said with urgency.

"Couple of hours ago, maybe."

"Did he steal your vehicle?"

"No. I didn't drive here. I was out walking my-" With that painful reminder of his beloved companion, he broke down.

Andie needed to question him further, but she filled the emotional pause with a quick phone call to the task force leader.

"Talk to me," Miller said over the encrypted cell connection.

Andie gave him the essential details and then launched into her recommendation. "Let's reactivate choppers and canine units. Get MDPD going door-to-door and highway patrol roadblocks on major east-west thoroughfares south of turnpike Exit 11. Reems is wearing a green-and-white madras shirt, khaki pants. Assume he's still armed and clearly dangerous. Estimate he's at most two hours out from our current position, but the timing of the neighbor's 911 call would put it at even less than that."

"Are you certain that the subject left the target residence on foot?" asked the deputy marshal.

"No vehicle sightings as yet."

"What's your recommended containment perimeter?"

"That's your call. But…"

"But what?"

She hesitated. Andie did like Theo, and what she was about to say would only make it harder to convince Jack that she wasn't out to get his best friend. "We have to deal with the likelihood that the subject will double-back to what he considers safe ground."

"Meaning?"

She hated to say it, but she couldn't ignore the information in the BOLO. "Sparky's Tavern."