9:46 PM
The three men walked away from Freidman's office with everything still
up in the air. It had taken a while to accept that it was best if
Marty stayed in the hospital where his only contact with a world he
remembered was there to keep an eye on him. Tubbs wondered if things
would have been so messed up for Sonny if he hadn't been in the hands
of a drug cartel when he'd lost his memory. He also wondered what sort of
work Castillo had been doing 27 years ago. He wasn't too sure he
really wanted to know the answer to that.
Sonny felt dejected and worried. His months suffering from trauma
induced amnesia were a blur that had never cleared. Only bits and
pieces, strange scenes from the life of a Drug Lord's power broker.
None of that time seemed real, it was warped and blurred by alcohol and
untreated injuries. His true memories had finally surfaced after
long months living a life beyond undercover. He had become his own
undercover persona, and surfacing had been the act of a drowning man
reaching a surface covered with flaming wreckage. Whatever he had
been or done, he learned from other people. That time remained a
morbid fascination and horror.
Marco was still doubtful, none of this seemed quite real to him. It
was just too Twilight Zone to take seriously. He liked Castillo,
the man inspired more hard work out of him than anyone else he had ever
worked for. He also seemed to know when ever Marco tried to
bullshit him, no matter how good his story was, or how perfect his
presentation. Sometimes he suspected Castillo of mind-reading.
But when the man said you did good, it meant more then cheers and
fireworks. It made you feel more "real".
Which was pretty weird if the guy was this deep.
"You sure he wasn't kidding? The Lieutenant's a really strange guy,
but common, I mean, a Ninja?"
Sonny stopped dead in his tracks, and Marco had to stop short to keep
from bumping into him. The look in the older man's eyes left him no
doubt. Those greenish blue eyes were hard as gun-metal. When
Crockett spoke, his voice was soft and very level.
Sonny stopped dead in his tracks, and Marco had to stop short to keep
from bumping into him. The look in the older man's eyes left him no
doubt. Those greenish blue eyes were hard as gun-metal. When
Crockett spoke, his voice was soft and very level.
"Believe it. Your life may depend on it. This whole trick bag
is getting weirder by the minute, and I'll bet you dimes to dollars this
is NOT gonna be the strangest thing you hear."
Rico joined in,
"In the years we worked with Castillo, NOTHING from that man's past was
ever normal."
The younger man's eyes went from Crockett's face to Tubbs, trying to be
sure they weren't playing with him. The older men were both dead
serious. Marco shook his head.
"Okay. Okay. But it still doesn't explain why someone
kidnapped him."
"No. It doesn't. And that's what worries me."
Rico sighed.
"Switek said he might have a line into what the Feds were really doing
while they were in OCB. He said he needed some tech support and it
might take some time. I don't know if he's going to have it
tonight."
Exhaustion was catching up with Sonny. Caffeine and adrenaline
could only carry you so far. He ran a hand over his face and raked
fingers through his hair. He'd survived Vietnam, and learned one of
the first rules
. When there's nothing useful you can do, and
you're getting too tired to make good decisions, it's time to get some
sleep. Especially if no ones shooting at you. No matter
how much you want to stay on the chase. He looked at the
others,
"We should call it a night." Rico nodded at that,
"I'm with you. let's go back to the boat. You need to catch
some shuteye Sonny, and I feel like a steamroller's worked me over.
Things will be okay at least for tonight. Castillo's safe here."
"Yeah, yeah you're right. I'm getting too punchy to do much good."
Marco looked at the older men for a second.
"Look, drop me off at the OCB. My car's there, and I want to check
on some stuff, and make sure this case for McKinnin still looks
good. I'll meet you there in the morning before McKinnin gets
there. The badguys will still be waiting in the morning."
Sonny sorted, "Yeah, they're good about that."
11:34 PM
The night closed in with the breathless darkness that Miami's damp heat
could produce. Most people's work day ended and they went back to
families and rest and sleep. Other people started other jobs or
kept working at jobs that never really ended. Sidney Friedman stood
at his office window for a long time with the lights out, gazing into
darkness lit by screaming neon signs and sodium orange streetlights, and
a background of twinkling anonymous white lights.
Dr. Freidman had spent a great deal of time thinking. He was being
squeezed from all sides. No matter what he tried to do, time was
running out. If the Agency did not already know what had happened
to Castillo, they would any minute. When that happened, all bets
were off. It was still going to be 10-12 hours before the drug test
results he needed were available. Even then, what he could do was
questionable. He was not positive what had happened to Castillo,
and he was afraid to know for certain. It did not surprise him that
Castillo might be capable of fleeing into amnesia to avoid revealing
information. It was a rare and exotic talent. But why flee
back to that mission debacle so long ago? Sidney could not imagine
what could be that important, moreover he did NOT want to know. The
other possibility was what frightened him. Something he did not
want to face. That made every word he said a risk. He checked
at the Nurses station and went down to Castillo's room. He entered
the Hospital room after a tap on the door.
"Hi Marty."
Black eyes were thin slits of darkness. The Latino did not look so
gaunt after all the fluids. A hollow whisper answered him.
"Sidney."
"We need to talk a little."
Martin lifted a hand, clenching and releasing the fingers, his voice was
the soft rasp of sandpaper on granite.
"I remember...they broke all the bones in my hand...my arm, now it's
healed. My face is healed. Where have I been?"
Friedman's face twitched into a crooked smile. Trust Marty to
notice the details and question them.
"I wondered when you'd notice that."
11:32 PM
Water lapped the sailboat. Peaceful as a rocking cradle.
Aboard the St. Vitus Dance. Sonny lay deep asleep in a bunk, one
arm under a pillow. The feel and smell of the soft Caribbean Sea
had followed him down into his dreams. The butt of his Heckler
& Koch USP45 close enough to reach in a split second. The
Portland PD officers sometimes kidded him about carrying so much
firepower, but Sonny just laughed and said he'd been chased by Godzilla
once too often to carry anything less. Rico curled under a sheet
in another bunk, his favorite illegal sawed off shotgun tucked close at
hand. The boat rocked gently in the warm breeze.
A few hundred yards away a man was settled discretely in a car.
Benito Dietz was comfortable. When Reese called him, he was always
happy with the money, and so far this had been an easy job compared to
many. Just watch and monitor different people and report every 30
minutes or when anything happened. He was prepared for a long or
short night here. Nightscope, cameras, some sound equipment, two
industrial grade thermoses of coffee and an assortment of snacks.
It was deep night, that time when all the color is finally washed out of
the sky and everything seems to be part of an old black and white
movie. He had a good view of the new marina. Benito enjoyed late
solo watching, he found it enjoyable and seldom grew bored. One of
the Reasons Reese paid him so well. There were food wrappers and
empty coffee cups in the car. A tiny beep sounded and he picked up
a Cellphone.
"What?."
Reese's voice spoke without identifying himself.
"If they move out, call me, and follow them."
Wednessday 1:20 AM
The night grew deeper and late. Only desk lights were on in the OCB
offices. Everyone had taken a break at five o'clock long enough to be sure
McKinnin was gone and then opened up for business. Trudy sat at a
computer screen scanning and typing, worry creased her face. Marco was on
the phone. Trudy called out,
"Call number 6 on the list too, I wrote the number next to it."
Gina responded, "Got it!"
Marco held a phone against his shoulder with his head while he shuffled
papers and wrote.
"Trudy, I've been tracking back the report on Castillo's rescue and it's
really weird. It's like it comes out of no where. WE didn't
place it, and it didn’t come from Metro by way of anyone involved that we
know. I think someone was watching and has a line directly
inside."
They all flinched as the doors swung open and Stan walked in carrying a
donut box.
"Kiddies, I have some treats."
Trudy cringed, she could not believe Switek would touch donuts twice the
same day anymore.
"Oh GOD, Stan, if I eat another donut I'll die! At least you could
have gotten Chinese!"
"Trust me, you'll like this better."
Trudy looked revolted as Stan opened the box. He reached in and
pulled out a cassette in a baggie.
"What's that?"
"Candy."
Arnie walked in at that moment lugging a large tape player, and set
it up on the desk while Stan talked.
"You remember that voice activated micro recorder that never worked
right?"
"Yeah. The Lieutenant said it wasn't worth using if it lost half
the conversations, and you couldn't get the warranty to fix it.
That was 6 months ago."
"Well, when the Feds took over the conference room I decided that half a
conversation is better than none. I left it in there. We just
got the micro recorder downloaded. It's spotty but
interesting."
Stan ceremonially handed the tape to Arnie , who put it in the machine
and said "SHAZAM!" with a wave of his hand and pushed play. It
started with static, and voices that were barely audible, talking about
files and materials to comb through. Words and phrases would come
through broken by static and blank spots. Bits of disjointed stuff.
Trudy looked at Stan, raising her eyebrows with a silent frown.
None of it was anything unexpected. They were going through all the
active files and some old ones. Stan looked at her and nodded to
keep listening. A phrase leaped out at her. "They're hot . .
. target? Miami, Yeah. . .afraid it .. Cowboy."
Cowboy?
For Trudy a bell rang in her memory somewhere. Out of the muddled
conversation pieces, twice more the word cowboy came up, and once the
name Emil. They kept mentioning a target. Trudy assumed they
meant Castillo.
When the tape ended Switek pursed his mouth somewhat grimly. "It's not
evidence, it's not legal, and it's gonna disappear. But I think it
means the Feds knew something about this, and who is this Cowboy?"
Trudy looked thoughtful and scribbled a note.
"Cowboy. I've seen that somewhere. Interpol, I think, something I
heard a long time ago.. I'm quitting on the local stuff, it's
getting so late anyway, we're just pissing people off. She held up
her watch to check the time. Did a quick calculation, "It's early
morning in Europe. I can start catching people now."
Bayshore Hospital
It was well past midnight when Friedman returned to his office at the
hospital carrying a pile of papers to go over. He stopped at the
door before opening it. Frozen in awareness, testing his senses for
information. Then his mouth tightened into a thin line. He
opened the door and slid into the office without turning on the overhead
light switch. His desk lamp was on, illuminating the face of the
man who sat there.
"Reese. What the
Hell are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you too Friedman." The big man was casual.
Sidney Friedman’s voice was a cutting tool..
"Get out."
Reese smiled at that.
"No. I have business here."
"I don't think so. I don't pick up pieces for you anymore."
The two men looked across a gulf almost as wide as space itself.
Reese was the one who broke that silence.
"I know Marty's here. I know he was missing for almost 5
days."
"So?"
"Word is out, the Cowboy's in this part of the world. You know
the drill. People like Marty don't just disappear Friedman.
And if they do, they don't come back."
Reese stood up and walked around the desk in the cluttered office to face
the Doctor. His long pale face was only a pale blur with his back
to the desk light.
"Marty's a candidate."
Friedman's face was stiff with remembered grief, he walked stiffly around
the man and dropped the charts and papers on his desk. He leaned on
the desk tiredly for a moment and sat down.
"What do you want Reese? I'm busy, I try to help people
here." Reese turned so that his back was to toward the wall
rather than the door.
"Just like you tried to help Gotai. And he killed three people
along with his target. You couldn't save him. You got
Francisco and couldn't keep him alive. I heard Meshnick almost
killed you."
Friedman flinched inwardly. So many years past and it was still the
fresh pain of failure like a raw wound.
"Do you think I've forgotten?" He snapped.
"I hope not. I want to know what you've learned."
Friedman rubbed a tired hand over his face.
"Who ever took him, dumped him in the ocean and left. it
suggests they lost interest."
"What do
you think?"
"I don't know."
"What's in his blood?"
"Garbage, a lot of garbage. Narcotics, psychoactives, at least
three MD-4 derivatives."
"Shit!"
"Yeah, you could say that."
"You've got maybe 24 hours to figure something out."
Reese opened the door.
"And just so you understand Friedman. I'm sorry they picked
Marty." As if the words were yanked out unwillingly, Friedman
called out.
"Reese." The man turned back to look at him.
"He's got partial amnesia."
Reese grinned, A wide, wolfish, toothy smile.
"You are kidding me Sidney. What's missing?"
"His memories end after Nai Po." Reese's eyes narrowed as his
smile widened.
"Interesting place to stay." Friedman's face was bitter.
"I know what happened at Nai Po."
"So do I."
Reese closed the door silently and was gone like a ghost, or a bad
dream. Friedman sat staring at the shut door in the shadowed
office. His eyes felt hot and dry and gritty. So many deaths,
so much pain. Everything he had tried ending in failure. The
memories still had the power to crush him after all these years. He
finally blinked as a single scalding tear overflowed before he dropped
his head in his hands.
11:40 PM Miami
Dale Menton paced another hotel room. The charcoal silk suit of
the day was hopelessly crumpled. His carefully acquired tanning bed
color had faded to paste. There was an increasingly haggard sag to
his face. One hand clutched a drink, the other pressed a phone to
his ear.
"What do you MEAN he's got amnesia? Where did you get this?"
After listening for a moment he began to curse under his breath. He was
laying out a fortune to various agents to try and stay ahead of the game,
and so far all the information was one blown step after another.
"Stay at the hospital, see what else you can learn. Do NOT let
Reese find you there." Menton swallowed more of the
drink. Ignoring the acid burn, and threat of choking.
"We're running out of time. He's got to be out of the hospital and
on his feet in 2 days. The Company is sending a team within the
next 32 hours. They must not get him. I don't care WHAT it
costs."
Dale Menton slammed the phone down, he was so furious he couldn’t see
straight. He had three sets of watchers on this mess. Armata
was his backup for information and muscle, he wondered when Reese was
going to tell him there was a problem. He stared at nothing for a long
time, his mind racing in circles, a taste of bile in his throat.
Pulling out his wallet, he fumbled through it for a card. The
number on the card was innocuous and could be called by anyone needing
tailored suits. But transpose each number correctly and it became a
very different number. His hands shook as he began to dial a sequence of
numbers that would eventually get him in a contact position with
Emil. It would take hours for contact to be set up. It would
cost a small fortune, most of that would come from his cut, the contract
had steep penalties for any contact. He needed the answer to a
single question.
"Will this make a difference?" He could not see any way that it wouldn't.
