James Grippando - Blood Money

“Answer it,” said Andie.

Jack took the call, expecting it to be Merselus. It wasn’t.

“Meet me on the platform at the Bayfront Station,” said Sydney.

Jack turned around. Miami’s Metromover was an elevated tram system that wound through downtown and the financial district. Jack could see the Bayfront Station from where he was standing, but this wasn’t part of the plan at all.

“What?” he said.

“You heard me.”

“Sydney, what are you doing?”

“Bayfront Station. Eleven forty-five.”

The call ended. Jack checked the time. He had fifteen minutes-enough time, but none to waste. He walked while waiting for Andie’s instructions.

Andie moved into reactive mode. She and her tech agent were inside an FBI special communications van, which was parked at ground level inside the garage at One Biscayne Tower, directly across the boulevard from the park. Two tech agents in the field were feeding her live-streaming video from surveillance cameras. She radioed position one on the rooftop.

“Novak, can you get Bayfront Station from your current location?”

“That’s affirmative,” he said.

She knew position two-one of the “homeless” on a park bench near the central fountain-would be useless in his current location. She radioed him with instructions: “Hernandez, relocate to the top of the embankment at the amphitheater. You will be eye level with the Bayfront Station platform.”

“Roger that.”

She checked the map on the computer screen. No changes to perimeter control were required-the same streets and alleys were implicated. The ground team, however, required adjustment. Andie started with the undercover agent who was dressed, wigged, and made up to resemble Sydney Bennett-the bait to draw out Merselus.

“Pederson to Bayfront Station. Eleven forty-five arrival.”

“Roger,” came the reply.

The rest of the ground team also needed adjustment if they were going to be in position to move in when Merselus showed his face. There were two more homeless guys, a touristy couple strolling in the park, a guitarist with a plate of coins sitting outside the entrance to the Metromover station.

“Position three, to south entrance of Bayfront Park; position four, to bus stop at Flagler; position five, to corner of Southeast Second Street; position six”-the guitarist-“stay exactly where you are.”

Andie checked the computer screen one more time. The final relocation was critical, and it took her tech agent a minute to compute the angles and come up with a clear line of fire for her sniper.

“Haywood,” she said into her radio. “Rooftop, Edison Hotel. Friedman will meet you at the service elevator at the back of the building.”

“Roger.”

Andie switched to another frequency for the final instruction.

“New destination is covered, Jack. Proceed to Bayfront Station.”

Andie’s instruction ended with a crackle in Jack’s earpiece. New destination is covered. He wondered what that meant, exactly. A SWAT team in position? A sniper ready to take out Merselus?

Paramedics standing by in case it all goes wrong?

Jack was already at Biscayne Boulevard, the western border of the park. Traffic was light on the four northbound lanes between him and the elevated people-mover station, which rose up like an oil rig from the urban sea of concrete and asphalt.

Jack stepped to the curb, then looked up at the platform across the street. A rubber-tired tram entered the station, and its doors slid open. One passenger got on. Two people stepped off and took the escalator down to the turnstile. The tram pulled away, leaving the platform unoccupied. Jack drew a breath, taking in the warm night air, and then started across the street.

Andie’s voice was in his ear again. “No rush, Jack. Decoy to arrive exactly at eleven forty-five.”

Decoy. He knew what Andie meant-the female agent disguised as Sydney Bennett, the bait who would lure Merselus into the trap. Jack’s head was already filled with worry, but Andie’s last communication had triggered yet another one, as he couldn’t help but wonder how many times Andie herself had been the decoy in one of her undercover operations.

Jack jogged across the fourth lane to avoid being flattened by a Porsche coming around the corner. Bayfront Station was at the fulcrum of what had once been a famous hairpin turn in the first and only Grand Prix race to actually run in the streets of downtown Miami. Some drivers thought the race was still running.

“Guitarist is one of ours,” said Andie as Jack approached the street-level entrance to the station. The tune sounded like something from the Gypsy Kings. The guy actually wasn’t bad.

“You’re early,” said Andie. “Don’t want you trapped on the platform with nowhere to go. Stand where you are and listen to the musician.”

Jack stopped. The guitarist transitioned into Cat Stevens’ “Moonshadow.” Really damn good.

“Okay,” said Andie, “take the escalator up to the platform. Decoy will arrive in ninety seconds.”

Jack fished a couple bucks from his wallet and bought a Metromover token from the machine. He dropped the change in the musician’s open guitar case, which drew a string of “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Nerves had a way of triggering funny thoughts, and special agent Cat Stevens had Jack thinking that it wasn’t just lawyers who yearned for another career.

“You’re welcome,” said Jack. He pushed through the turnstile and started up the escalator. It seemed painfully slow, but Jack knew it was just the circumstances. Halfway up he spotted the Sydney decoy on the sidewalk across the street. She was walking toward the station.

He wondered if Merselus saw her as well.

Jack stepped onto the platform. It was cooler up there, a salty breeze blowing across the park from the bay. His gaze fixed on the FBI decoy as she crossed Biscayne Boulevard. She didn’t look all that much like Sydney Bennett. The blond wig, the scarf, the sunglasses at night-the entire getup was more like what Sydney might look like if she were trying not to be recognized in public.

Jack moved to the thick yellow warning line in front of the track, right at the edge of the elevated platform. No trams were in sight. He looked up and down Biscayne Boulevard. To the north he could see all the way to the arena, home of the Miami Heat. He spotted a few pedestrians along the sidewalk, not knowing which ones were FBI agents, no way of knowing whether one of them was Merselus. If someone didn’t make a move on the decoy quickly, the whole mission would be a failure.

Jack’s phone rang. He checked the number. It was from Sydney’s phone.

Andie’s voice was in his earpiece. “Answer it.”

Jack put the phone to his other ear. “This is Jack.”

Silence.

He glanced toward the escalator. The Sydney decoy was on her way up.

“This is Jack,” he said into the phone.

No response.

Anger rose up inside him. Sydney’s entire role in the operation had been simply to call on her iPhone and tell Jack to meet her at the central fountain at eleven thirty. If Sydney was on a mission to take over and screw things up, she was playing a dangerous game. Jack put his phone away, but it chimed immediately with a text message.

Check the bench , it read.

He turned around to face the wood bench in front of the billboard in the center of the platform. The bench was vacant. He was completely alone on the platform until the Sydney decoy reached the top of the escalator. Jack glanced at her, then back at the bench, and something caught his eye. He stepped closer, closer. Then he saw it clearly, a polished copper hoop hanging from the armrest on the bench.