James Born - Burn Zone

Duarte just smiled and said, "You guys have a 'go-to' analyst?"

"Yeah, doesn't everyone?" He looked down the hall to a tall, pretty woman with red hair. "Jan Stern is the best. She's got the lowdown on every database you can think of."

"Will she give me a few minutes?"

"Jan? Sure. Loves Latins. Lived in Spain for a while. She'll do anything you ask."

"Thanks."

"Still all business."

Duarte shrugged as he started toward the analyst. He eased up to her cubicle and smiled. "Jan, hello. I'm Alex Duarte from the West Palm Beach office."

She looked up from her report, then smiled herself. "What can I do for you, Agent Duarte?"

"I need to identify someone, and all I have is a description and nickname." He pulled out the registration sheet from the motel in Metairie where Linley had said he delivered the crate. It had taken a while to find the exact motel, but the owner was cooperative if it meant getting rid of a federal agent. "His registration at a motel just says 'Ike Floyd, Neb.'"

"No problem." She scooted out a second chair and slid it next to her. "Have a seat, and we'll see what we can find."

After a half hour of more conversation than he wanted but some dynamite computer work, she had narrowed it down to five possibilities for "Ike" Floyd in the Omaha area.

As he prepared to leave, she said, "How long you out here for?"

"Few more days, at least."

"Are you free for dinner?" She had a bright, flawless smile.

He smiled and knew his answer immediately. "I'd like that, but I have a girlfriend." He'd finally taken the plunge.

William "Ike" Floyd had tried to strike up a conversation with the man named Pelly, but so far he hadn't had much luck. He wasn't unfriendly or nasty, just focused on finding the truck. He spoke English. He had an accent, but he knew what words to string together and how to put in a little inflection. In most sentences. But he didn't have much to say.

They pulled up to the fourth place that rented U-Hauls. This was a grimy, former gas station that wasn't one of the nice, roomy corporate sites.

Pelly nodded. "This kind of place might buy stolen parts."

Ike looked over at the man whose face seemed to grow darker with hair by the minute and said, "You think we got a chance? What if he doesn't want to say anything?"

"If he knows something, he'll talk."

Just the way the trim, furry man said it made Ike believe it. Ike pulled the rented Impala into the lot next to the old station, and they walked through the empty office and into the covered work bay. Inside, a sloppy, fat man in a T-shirt too small for his girth unscrewed the grill to a step van.

Ike said in a low voice, "I think that's my truck."

Pelly stepped into the bay and said, "Excuse me, sir."

The fat man jumped at his voice and turned to face his visitors. He stood to his full six-three and tried to pull down the greasy white T-shirt. "What can I do for you boys?"

Pelly smiled and eased closer. Ike noticed him reach under the back of his shirt for his automatic pistol. He had seen how quick Ortíz was to kill. The image of Faith's open, staring, dead eyes was still burned into his head. He was about to see another version of the brutal way these guys did business.

WILLIAM "IKE" FLOYD DIDN'T KID HIMSELF. HE KNEW HE WAS involved in something that would have the cops all over him if they pulled it off. Of course, he had thought that once before and still never had had to answer for his role in that incident. He had to admit he wasn't comfortable with seeing people killed right in front of him. Even though Pelly had moved his Beretta.380 from the rear of his pants to the front, Ike didn't give the fat mechanic much of a chance for surviving this encounter.

As the big man waddled slowly closer to them, he passed a greasy hand through his wavy blond hair. There was an oily fingerprint on his nose.

"Hey," he hesitated, his eyes fixed on Pelly's gun. "What can I do for you?"

Pelly nodded at Ike. "Make sure is right truck," he said, his accent bleeding through.

Ike quick-stepped past the mechanic and over to the U-Haul step van and peeked into the cab. His Doolittle Industries ball cap was on the dash, and he recognized the small tear in the truck's bench seat. He looked back at Pelly and nodded. He elected to stay next to the truck.

The nervous mechanic turned so he could see both Ike and Pelly.

Ike knew Ortíz was ruthless. He had seen it firsthand. Pelly didn't have the sophisticated manners of Ortíz, but with that thick stubble and muscular arms, Ike knew the younger man was no pussy. He seemed more approachable than Ortíz, even eating a Big Mac with Ike at lunchtime while Ortíz made calls from a diner. Ike figured the boss didn't want to be involved in the grunt work like this.

Yeah, Pelly seemed okay, but that didn't mean he wouldn't think twice about shooting the behemoth in the head if he had to.

Then Pelly started to speak in that slow English he had. He looked at Ike but spoke for the mechanic to hear. "I know this gentleman is a businessman. He deals with stolen trucks. That's for profit, no?" He looked at the mechanic. The man was shaking hard enough for Ike to see the fat strips on his back jiggle.

Pelly continued. "I am also a businessman, so I can see what he wants. He would prefer I pay him five hundred American dollars to find out where our crate is and who took it. He knows that involving the local police in a murder investigation doesn't help me or him." He looked at the mechanic. "¿És verdad?" Then he translated, "Correct, no?"

The mechanic stole a glance at Ike, then stared back at Pelly. "That's right, that's right."

He was panting like a dog on a hot day.

Pelly leveled his gaze at the man. "So who took it?" He rested his hand on the pistol grip.

The mechanic didn't risk being slow with the answer. "Craig Gaines and some of his buddies took the truck. I just paid them fifteen large for it. There weren't no crate or nothing in it when they delivered it."

"And where is Craig Gaines?" Pelly let his hand drop off the gun.

"About four or five blocks over near the railroad tracks." He wiped his sweaty forehead, leaving a smear of black grease. "Fourth house in from the main road. Has a green Camaro out front."

Pelly nodded and smiled. "We will make this deal, my friend."

The man's legs were shaking now.

Pelly kept his placid face. "If we go to Craig Gaines's house and you have warned them, or they are not there, or we do not recover our property, I will make sure you do not see the sunset." Pelly kept his hairy face pleasant. "If we get the crate, we will not say we saw this truck here and you will never see us again. Is this not fair?"

The mechanic nodded furiously.

"Now, do you have any guns here?"

"Why?"

"Because if you do not answer me, I will shoot you."

"In the office. Cabinet behind the desk. Right at eye level."

Pelly looked over at Ike, who scampered past them again and into the office. In the cluttered room, he squeezed past a stack of boxes to get behind the desk and in front of the metal, nicked-up cabinet. He had to jiggle the handle to force open the door. He found a small SIG-Sauer auto pistol in a nylon holster on the shelf, just about his eye level. He grabbed the pistol, then paused. On the same shelf, over to the side, was a wooden crate without a top. Set inside like eggs in a carton were six old-style grenades like the ones in an old John Wayne war movie. He slid out the small crate and tucked it under one arm, then hurried out to Pelly.

"I found something extra."

"What?"

"Look." He held up the crate of grenades.

Pelly smiled. "Put 'em in the car."