James Born - Burn Zone

"Excellent. I'd get some rest and be ready to move tonight." He came from behind the desk and said, "I'll walk you down." He placed his hand around Félix's shoulder.

The colonel was wearing a casual tan sport coat that covered a P-38-style automatic nine-millimeter in a black flap holster. He looked like an old-time Gestapo plainclothes officer. Félix bet that this guy's name was known to most of the cops in the country and that there wasn't any place he couldn't go. It also seemed likely he knew everything that went on. That was probably why this Ortíz character had gotten under his skin. He hated someone doing something he didn't know about.

Once they arrived in the lobby, Félix sensed the heightened alertness of the security personnel now that the boss was in the room. The door was opened by two men as they crossed into the Panamanian humidity and heat, even more oppressive than Florida's.

A block south of the office building, they stopped next to an alley.

The colonel lit a cigarette he dug from his coat pocket and said, "I need to be getting back, but I think I'll take advantage of the case to make the trip with you back to New Orleans." He looked at Félix and added, "If that would be all right with you, of course."

"We would be happy to have you as our guest. I'll make arrangements with the FBI legate here in Panama right now."

Staub smiled. "I love New Orleans. Besides, it'll be good to practice my English."

"You speak English?"

Staub took a second and switched languages. "I speak the English and the Spanish and the French," he said in a heavy accent. "I have been traveled to Miami and New York." He smiled.

"That's good. I speak English and Spanish, but nothing else."

Still in English, Staub said, "I will enjoy this break in my hobby."

"Hobby?"

"Job?"

Félix nodded.

"Excellent."

Byron Gastlin sat for about ten minutes, then decided that, since there was no way in hell he'd ever come back to this godforsaken place, he'd take a few minutes to explore. Maybe he'd meet Félix at police headquarters instead of here. He walked past several shops that sold what was purported to be native jewelry and handmade blankets. He stopped at one place and thought about buying some dolls for his niece in Sarasota. He was tired all of a sudden. He walked, thinking he was on the right street for the police building, but then saw he was a block off-the top floor of the office building popped over the lower roofs of the businesses and apartments. He picked up the pace, pushing his stubby legs along as fast as he could without exerting himself.

Finally, he found an alley that crossed onto the next street and discovered that his worn topsiders gave him little traction on the slight incline of the alley's bricklike surface. There were doors to apartments along the narrow street and the occasional moped or bicycle, but no cars would dare make it down the roadway. It curved slightly, giving Gastlin a partial view of traffic on the next street: old, beat-up American cars traveling as fast as they could, white, nasty exhaust pouring from their tailpipes.

As Gastlin stepped onto the main street, he paused on the sidewalk to get his bearings, and a man almost bumped into him. It took the American a second to realize who it was.

He fumbled for the words, then finally said, "Hello, sir. I just finished talking with your man."

The taller man smiled, but with no warmth. "That's funny," he said in almost unaccented English. "I thought you just finished talking with a U.S. drug agent."

Gastlin froze. He knew the man was connected, but not this well. Gastlin had to think fast. "No, no. I was speaking to a distributor from the states. He's another smuggler like me. He couldn't be with the DEA."

Mr. Ortíz stared at him and said, "You flew into Panama with him."

Gastlin didn't know how to answer. The DEA had a bad leak in it.

Flustered, Gastlin said, "I, um, did see him on the plane."

"And an FBI agent met you both."

Gastlin stared at him. He finally said, "If you knew all that, why did you have your man meet with me?"

"I had my reasons." He smiled and arched his eyebrows.

It gave Gastlin a chill. He suddenly realized that his business partner might be completely insane.

Gastlin felt his usual sweat kick into high gear, and the cloth below his underarms looked like he had peed in his shirt. His stomach gurgled as he fought the urge to be sick. This was why things had gone so smoothly. Mr. Ortíz really did control the cops. He wanted to run, but now regretted all the Twinkies and making fun of runners because he knew he'd never leave this alley.

ALEX DUARTE STOOD ON A BALCONY OF THE ADMINISTRATIVE offices for the Port of New Orleans, looking out over the busy water operations of the Napoleon container terminal as he listened to Félix Baez on his cell phone.

"Are you sure he isn't just out for a while?" asked Duarte. "You know, sightseeing or something."

"C'mon, Rocket. It's been over twenty-four hours. I'm tellin' ya, Gastlin got cold feet. He was afraid the U.S. attorney wasn't gonna give him credit, and he skipped."

"But you got the load?"

"Yeah, they dropped it near Colón over on the east coast. Staub's men got it through the port and on an old tub named Flame of Panama. It left late last night."

"When are you coming back?"

"I fly out this afternoon. Colonel Staub is coming with me. He's been a huge help. They been looking for Gastlin, too."

"And you don't think the bad guys got him?"

"I thought about it, but the cops were watching the guy he met when he disappeared. They delivered the pot just like they said, too. If there was a problem, they wouldn't have dropped off the container."

Duarte thought about it and added, "Just seems strange. The guy didn't impress me as a runner. I thought he was too shaky to do something like that."

"Me, too. I got a few more hours to find his fat ass. Maybe he's chasing transvestites over in the central district."

Duarte considered this and remained silent. He knew the DEA man was masking how he really felt. He was quiet so long, Félix said, "You still there?"

Duarte said, "Uh-huh."

"Where's Lina? She missing me?"

"She's here with the FBI guys. I get the feeling they're interested in someone other than Ortíz."

"Who?"

"I'm just listening and learning."

"I'll get her to open up when I fly in."

Duarte remained silent, even though he doubted Félix's ability to loosen up the FBI agent.

Félix said, "I'll call if we round up that tub of lard."

"Good luck."

"See you tonight."

Duarte shut the phone and looked up to see Lina coming toward him on the balcony, the wind whipping her short hair to the side. In jeans and a simple T-shirt, her athletic body stood out. "What's up, Alex?"

"That was Félix. He's flying in tonight. Everything is on schedule."

"That's great. I wanna see who the other distributors for the pot are."

"You think they'll be threats to national security, too?"

She looked at him, trying to decide if he was being sarcastic, then said, "It's our job to find out."

Duarte liked that attitude of taking responsibility and not shying away from duty. But he didn't like not knowing what the story was as his case started to go. He felt like maybe now he had a need to know.

"Why Ortíz and his contacts?"

"Why what?"

"Why are they a threat to security?"

Lina looked at him. Her dark eyes set in that crooked face. He could see the intelligence in them, but also that famous FBI arrogance. She didn't say a word.

Duarte said, "I'm curious…You really think I'd let something slip?"

She kept that hard gaze on him. He returned it. A stare not learned from police work or four years in the army, but a natural one that God had given him instead of the ability to relax around people. When other teenagers were going to parties and learning about life, he had decided to learn karate and push himself to the limit in sports, completing the Disney marathon in Orlando at eighteen. Lina Cirillo could try and stare him down now, but she'd be in for a shock if she did.