James Born - Burn Zone

Now he smelled death and knew exactly what it meant. There was a body in this house.

He eased down the hallway, not positive he was alone in the old wooden structure. His SIG-Sauer was in his extended right hand and pointing anywhere he looked. He came to the living room and saw the two bodies on the couch. He noted quickly that they were a man and woman but went right past them to clear the rest of the house.

Two minutes later, he was back in the living room, holstering his pistol. He was careful not to disturb the crime scene. The man was about twenty-three, with light brown hair. He had been hit in the upper chest four times. He lay at a slight angle. The woman, who was really more of a girl, about eighteen, lay at the opposite angle with her head touching the man's head. She had been hit in the neck. The blood from all the wounds had turned much of the old white sofa dark brown.

With the TV screen in front of the couch, the bodies looked like a young couple on a date watching TV.

Duarte looked for the phone to make sure the 911 call went to the right police agency. This case was turning bloody, and Duarte was no closer to the answers that he needed.

PELLY WASN'T HAPPY WHEN HIS BOSS CALLED HIM AT DAWN. HE had heard somehow that the ATF agent was on his way to Lafayette, and he wanted the fat mechanic silenced. He also wanted Pelly to stop Duarte if he could find him.

With no traffic, Pelly had made the drive from New Orleans in under two and a half hours. But he was still annoyed.

Pelly waited until a middle-aged man with a young boy had hooked up a rental trailer to his pickup truck and left the old U-Haul building where the heavy mechanic worked. Now there shouldn't be anyone else inside the office. He didn't like the idea of going back on a business arrangement, but Staub had insisted, and he had a point. There was no guarantee the mechanic would remain silent for long.

He waited in the small parking lot for several more minutes, then walked quickly to the front door and ducked inside.

The office was empty again, so he pulled his small Beretta from his waist and turned toward the garage bay. Stepping inside, he didn't see the mechanic, so he leaned down and spotted the man's legs on the far side of the same van that had been stolen. The fat man still didn't notice him.

Pelly stepped farther into the big bay, the pistol dangling at his side.

As he was about to call out, he heard a deafening blast, and the window of the van next to him shattered. Instinctively, he fell to the hard floor of the garage and searched for the source of the shot. A second booming blast blew holes in the side of the van just above his head. It was a shotgun. He barely heard the racking of the slide over the ringing in his ears. He scurried to the rear of the van and stole a peek to the back of the bay. Somehow the mechanic had surprised him.

Wedged in between two shelves of parts, the fat mechanic had a pump shotgun up and scanning the bay. Pelly picked up an old air filter and tossed it to the front of the van on the side away from the mechanic. The man turned toward the noise and fired again, racked the slide of the weapon, and fired blindly again.

Pelly saw him fumble in his front pocket for another round and knew the shotgun was empty. He took the moment to rush the man. He had his pistol up, but didn't fire. Instead he wanted to make sure the shotgun was out of his hands while it was empty and the man didn't expect an assault.

Pelly threw himself into the giant man as the mechanic's girth seemed to swallow him up. Pelly wondered if the man had any bones in his huge body as he was enveloped by fat. The shotgun clattered onto the floor and the mechanic bounced off the wall, then stumbled away from the gun. Pelly was lucky the giant didn't fall on top of him. He would've had a hard time wiggling out of that situation.

Now Pelly stood over the fallen behemoth with his gun out, but not pointing at the man.

The mechanic, panting, flat on his back, held his hands in front of him. "I'm sorry. I had to tell him."

"Tell who?"

"The other guy. He didn't offer me any cash, but I could tell he'd hurt me if I didn't tell him who took the truck."

Pelly realized he was too late and would have to explain things to the boss. He didn't speak, just pointed the Beretta at the man's blond head and squeezed the trigger three times. It was nothing personal. Just business.

After telling the local cops all he knew about the house, Alex Duarte had found out that his source of information, the fat mechanic, had been found shot to death in his rental shop. Duarte had already told them about Cal Linley, so now it looked like the Louisiana cops had four bodies that were tied together. That was a big deal.

To Duarte the real worry was whatever was in the crate that was worth killing four people over. The more he thought about it, the more concerned he became.

He had called Lina as he left Kansas to tell her he was on his way to Lafayette but gave no details. He didn't like sharing information with someone who didn't return the favor.

He didn't intend to stop until he had answers to his questions.

He knew this case had some deeper meaning.

ALEX DUARTE WAS HAPPY TO TURN IN THE LITTLE COBALT NOW that Félix Baez had driven a DEA Bronco from New Orleans to meet him at the crime scene. He had briefed the DEA man on what he knew and endured his countless questions about why he had not been included from the start.

He had listened to Félix's theories of how Lina was in New Orleans with Colonel Staub for all kinds of lewd reasons and finally said, "Maybe she's working another angle of the case."

"No, bro, she's giving him that pussy."

"I don't know, Félix. She seems to be pretty interested in her job. She knows something she's not telling us."

"She's an FBI agent; that's what they do." He scowled out the window as they looked for the third rental place on their list. "Just something about that babe. She's got a butter face, but, snap, her body is tight."

Duarte looked over at his friend. "Butter face?"

"Yeah, you know, man, everything she's got looks good but her face."

"I don't think that's too fair."

"It's not fair she's fucking the colonel either."

Duarte shut up, knowing he wasn't making the situation better. On Moss Street he noticed a Ryder truck backed in the front of a motel called the Cajun Inn. The yellow truck was smaller than the U-Haul he had seen earlier in the day. He slowed the little Cobalt as the hotel came up on his right.

Félix said, "What 'cha doin', bro?"

"Just noticed that rental truck. The way it's wedged in the front like that."

"C'mon, I'm already trusting you enough to go to the rental places with you. Let's not waste time on wild-duck chases."

"Goose chases."

"I was raised in Miami. I couldn't tell the difference between a duck and a goose. I don't wanna chase either. I wouldn't mind getting back to New Orleans and keepin' Lina from makin' a mistake."

Duarte gave in and sped up instead of turning into the motel.

Duarte looked over at the truck as they passed. He had a feeling he was making a mistake, but Félix had a point. They could always come back.

Pelly drove his own rental car far behind the older Ford Bronco that the ATF agent, Duarte, and his partner, Baez, rode in. He had followed Duarte from the house where they had recovered the crate. Pelly was patient. He'd know when he had a chance to act. It had taken Pelly a good thirty minutes to figure out what the two men were doing. Then he realized they were looking at truck rental places. This was one smart cop. He knew, probably because of the dead mechanic, that they had lost their van. This guy thought ahead.