James Born - Burn Zone

"Hello," he said, before even checking the clock.

"I knew you'd be awake."

He smiled at the sound of Alice Brainard's voice.

She continued. "I bet you already worked out, too."

"Nope, I technically haven't been to sleep yet."

"Out partying with Félix?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what happened?"

"I'm not sure. I'm caught up in the follow-up to our case, and it's taking more time than I thought." He didn't intend to worry her with the details of more bodies.

"At least I can tell you we have a profile from the blood under your informant's fingernail. All you need is a suspect."

Duarte thought of the Flame of Panama 's first mate. "I may have one."

"Can you get a comparison sample from him?"

"By what I suspect right now, if I can draw blood on this guy we should have plenty."

"That sounds like a good, determined ATF agent." There was a pause. "How're things in New Orleans?"

"Good, I guess, but I'm in Kansas."

"Why Kansas?"

"Long story."

Alice said, "When are you coming back?"

"Soon as I can. We have a few loose ends to clear up."

"We'll have a great homecoming date when you do."

"Can't wait."

They exchanged goodbyes and he looked up at the clock. It was 5:55.

Thanks to Alice, Alex Duarte had already eaten breakfast and traveled all the way from Kansas City to Lafayette by eight in the morning. It had been pure luck to meet a pilot with the Department of Homeland Security, a former customs agent who was flying down to Houston the next day. Duarte had spoken to the uniformed man in the lobby of the hotel, and the good old boy from Dallas had remembered when, before 9/11, both customs and the ATF had been under the Treasury Department and sometimes worked closely together. He knew some of Duarte's friends from the ATF office in Miami and gladly let Duarte take one of the empty seats in the sleek Gulfstream jet. The pilot made a quick stop in Lafayette and was on his way again.

Now, in another damn rented Chevrolet Cobalt, he slowly cruised down Talbot Street, looking for an obvious place where the rented U-Haul van might be stashed. He had checked with the Kansas City U-Haul manager, who'd said the van was still in the same spot.

As he drove, Duarte realized the GPS unit might just be in a trash can. But he had to try. He had to admit to himself that he had no idea where this was going. He didn't know what had been taken from the cargo container; he didn't know why Byron Gastlin had been killed; he didn't know who'd killed Cal Linley. All he knew was he had a lead, and he was going to follow it.

Duarte almost stopped the little Cobalt in traffic when he looked up and saw the U-Haul sign on the dingy little building that looked like a former gas station. The van had to be there. He wondered if it had been turned in as he pulled the Cobalt into the tiny lot.

Inside, the business presented no more of a professional look. Ancient posters of 1970s vintage cars pulling U-Haul trailers were stuck on the walls without pattern, a small office with a desk piled high in paperwork was empty.

Duarte peeked through an open door into the two-bay garage. It was hot, but the bay doors were closed and a large man with blond hair leaned under the hood of a van. Stepping inside, he said, "Excuse me," in a loud voice.

The giant man in a filthy, white T-shirt that had to have been dirty when he put it on this morning, straightened up and looked toward Duarte.

"Help you?"

"Maybe. I'm interested in a van."

"I only got trailers left. Three of 'em out in the back. Should get a van back tonight."

Duarte got a sense this guy was nervous. "What about the one in the bay?"

The fat mechanic waddled a little closer, blocking Duarte's view of the van. "This here one is down for a while."

Duarte stepped into the bay.

The mechanic said, "Sorry, bud, but you can't come out here. Insurance reasons."

Ignoring the mechanic, he started to pass the giant man.

The mechanic reached out to grab Duarte's arm until the ATF man said, "Don't try it unless you want to work a ratchet with your left hand."

The man knew threats when he heard them and quickly withdrew the hand.

Duarte looked in the cab of the van, then in the glove compartment. He found the paperwork signed by William Floyd. He turned to the mechanic. "This is the van I'm looking for." He knew not to mention the GPS. This guy may have rented U-Hauls, but he was not part of their corporate structure.

Duarte said, "Where's the man who was driving this?"

The fat man shrugged. That was annoying.

Duarte took a quick step closer to him.

The mechanic said, "Look, I don't want no trouble."

"Then you better answer some questions."

"What was in that truck that made you Spanish people so interested?"

"Someone else was by here?"

"Yep, and he paid me five hundred bucks for information. What are you good for?"

"I won't break your arm for having a stolen van."

"How you know it's stolen?"

"Because the company doesn't have it as returned, you're stripping it, and you got the bay doors closed when it's a hundred degrees in here. Now you gonna give me some answers or am I going to take your right arm in my grip?"

The fat man played with his blond curly hair for a minute and said, "I like your threats better than the monkey-looking guy's. I think he would've kilt me if I didn't talk."

Duarte knew exactly whom he meant: the first mate from the Flame of Panama . "Talk to me, and you won't see me again."

"That's what Monkey Boy said."

Duarte was ready to get some answers.

Twenty minutes later Duarte drove past the house where the fat mechanic had told him he had sent the other man who "looked like a monkey." Duarte knew the description and that the man was likely the first mate of the Flame of Panama. He had Félix Baez going through the DEA in Panama right now to find out his name. Whoever he was, he was smart enough to get ahead of Duarte and had at least some cash. The mechanic admitted to having been paid five hundred bucks to tell the man where the van had come from.

The men who had questioned the mechanic, and by the description of the second man, Duarte thought it might be his William "Ike" Floyd, had asked for another van to replace the partially disassembled one the mechanic had hidden in his shop. That meant they would've arranged for transportation from this area, because the fat guy had no more step vans.

The man didn't look too happy when Duarte made him call the manager in Kansas City and say he had the van. He gave the fat mechanic a hard stare until he admitted that he had bought the van knowing it was stolen. The U-Haul manager from Kansas City was shouting over the phone. Duarte figured there would be a U-Haul franchise open in Lafayette in the next few days.

The house he had driven past was quiet. There was no Camaro in the front yard as the mechanic had said, but there was a work stool and a few rags where it looked like someone had been repairing a car.

Duarte finally parked the rented Cobalt two houses away and walked down the deserted sidewalk and straight up the path to the front door. He knocked hard and stepped to the side. He heard something inside the house like a radio or TV. There didn't seem to be an air conditioner running, and all the windows were closed.

He tried the handle. Open. He pushed the door as he called out, "Hello."

Immediately he sensed something wasn't right. He stepped inside and drew his Glock before his brain registered exactly what was wrong. He looked down the messy hallway, with magazines piled on the side and several empty bottles. The familiar odor was what had put him on edge. He had gotten used to it as a young man in the army. American soldiers might not have seen widespread combat in Bosnia, but the atrocities by both sides made up for the lack of U.S. participation. Duarte had been with units that uncovered mass graves or found slaughtered families on a number of occasions. His specialty with explosives as a combat engineer had given him the chance to work with a number of different units.