James Born - Burn Zone

Pelly smiled, enjoying the challenge of a man who knew his business and how to handle things. He had heard from the men he hired that the ATF agent had moved like a cat when the fake robbery went down in New Orleans. Now the man had their scent.

Pelly had called Staub but could tell his boss was involved in something else. His guess was that the colonel had a scent of his own. He had not personally seen the FBI woman. In a way, it was a relief to see Staub interested in a woman under normal circumstances where he didn't have to whip her or cut something off to be satisfied. In another way, Pelly was not happy that the man was distracted from business again.

Colonel Staub had hardly listened when Pelly told him that Duarte was looking at rental companies. Staub was convinced they were quiet enough to hide their activities and that the extra cash they had given the manger of the Ryder rental store would keep his mouth shut. He told Pelly to use his judgment and hung up. What the hell did that mean? It meant that whatever he did, Staub would have a reason to blame him if something went wrong.

Pelly saw the old Bronco slow near a hotel a few blocks ahead. The sign out front read THE CAJUN INN and had to slow himself so he wouldn't creep up on the federal agents. Then the Bronco took off again.

As Pelly got closer, he saw what had caught their attention. A Ryder step van, just like the one they had rented for Ike to take the device to Houston, was parked in the small hotel's lot.

Pelly slowed his rental car. It couldn't be. No one would be that stupid. He touched the automatic pistol in his waistband and pulled into the lot. He wouldn't call Staub on this just yet.

He'd just use his judgment.

Colonel Lázaro Staub stood on the tiny balcony of Lina Cirillo's hotel room at the Marriott in New Orleans, smoking his last Camel. Lina seemed somewhat fanatical about her dislike for cigarettes, so he hadn't pushed it and stepped outside while the FBI agent freshened up.

Staub had not been blind to the signals the FBI agent had been throwing his way since he had arrived in New Orleans. He also realized that Félix Baez had been interested in the odd-looking FBI agent, too. It was obvious that any attention she showed him bothered the DEA man tremendously.

While Staub had no real sexual interest in the woman, he did see the value in playing along. She might know something he was not aware of. He had heard the phrase "Pale Girl" used in a conversation and felt it would be beneficial to learn the meaning of this code name.

Physically, Lina was too skinny and fit to interest him. She didn't have nearly the right girth in her breasts, and her face lined up like a kid's drawing. Besides, he didn't think she would respond to the type of domination he would be interested in showing her.

After a few minutes in the bathroom, Lina stepped out onto the balcony and looked out over the city.

"Looks like Katrina didn't hurt the Quarter too much."

Staub nodded, dropping his cigarette and snubbing it out on the concrete floor. Stepping closer to her, he said, "This is where the white tourists come. Of course the government protected it." He placed a hand on her back and started to rub.

She looked up into his eyes and smiled.

He felt nothing from it.

Lina said, "You think there was anything in that container besides pot?"

He shook his head, "Not unless it was something more valuable, and that is doubtful. What do you think, my dear?" He moved his hand to her shoulder and slid in closer to her.

"I have no idea. Duarte seems convinced."

"I think this case is over except for the singing of the fat lady. Soon I will return to Panama and you to your job in Washington." He looked into her eyes now and said, "Perhaps we should make use of our time wisely, no?"

She didn't move, but didn't answer either.

He decided to keep asking questions. "Why are you here from Washington anyway?"

"Just helping."

"But why not a local agent?" He went to kiss her, and she stepped back, holding up her hand.

"Because I know when to say no."

The clean, professional atmosphere of the Ryder truck rental center was in sharp contrast to the dark and dingy U-Haul franchise where the fat mechanic had told Duarte about his scam and was later found dead. After trying to reason with the clean-cut manager here, Duarte secretly hoped the same fate might await him. It wasn't like the sandy-haired man of thirty-five was part of the case or vital to any testimony or had even done anything wrong, so Duarte certainly wouldn't use any of his special techniques on him, but the man still had an annoying tone.

"I understand you need information," said the man, "but I will not divulge anything to you unless you have a warrant."

Duarte kept his cool in the rear office where he and Félix were crammed together behind a spotless desk with a nineteen-inch computer screen. Duarte responded, "We don't need a warrant, only a subpoena. And we won't need that if you could just tell us if you rented a step van in the last twenty-four hours."

The manager shook his head. "Nope, not a word until I see proper authorization."

Duarte said, "Sir, this could be important. If you've rented a truck, then we'll get you a subpoena. Can you tell us that much?"

"No. This is not Nazi Germany, my friend. I will not divulge private information."

"I don't need private information yet. Just info on if you rented a truck."

"No dice, and I don't have time to continue to argue the point with you gentlemen. Now, unless you have a warrant, I will say good luck and goodbye. Unless you are not really law enforcement personnel, you'll heed my wishes." He stood up behind the desk.

Félix, who had not said a word, stood up and stepped around Duarte to the side of the desk, blocking the man's exit. "You're right, motherfucker."

Duarte noticed he put on a thick Cuban accent, but it got the man's attention.

Félix continued. "We're not cops; that's why we don't got a warrant."

The manager swallowed hard and plopped back into his cushioned chair.

"You see we ain't cops, and this ain't no fucking social visit. The men who rented this truck owe us money, and we need to collect. So here's the scoop. Answer the question or your typing skills will go to shit with six broken fingers. But it won't matter anyway, because you won't be in the office with a full body cast on. Do you got it now, man?" His voice had risen through the whole tirade.

The manager looked hypnotized, then nodded as a bead of sweat ran down his high forehead. "I understand what's going on now. I apologize." He said in a remarkably calm voice. He swallowed hard, still looking up at Félix.

"Did someone rent a truck in the last day?" Félix leaned in close to the man.

"Yes. Yes, sir."

"Who?"

The man fumbled with the computer. "He listed his name as Robert Merrick."

Duarte perked up at the familiarity of the name until he realized what it was: the Elephant Man. Hadn't Michael Jackson tried to buy his bones, or something?

Duarte said, "What'd he look like?"

The nervous manger looked between the two men several times and then said, "A little like a caveman."

Duarte knew they were on the right track.

WILLIAM "IKE" FLOYD ROLLED OFF THE CLEAN, WARM BED AND stood inside his small room at the Cajun Inn just off Moss Street. He had slept more than eleven hours and he felt like a new man, even though his face still hurt from where Craig had smacked him with the board. Then he thought about Craig's fate and his girlfriend's, too. Ike realized he had actually killed someone. Shot them at close range. He was a killer. He felt more confident, like maybe he belonged with the men with whom he was now involved.