James Born - Burn Zone

He thought that would be a good idea, but knew it wasn't what she wanted to hear, so he kept his mouth shut. If she were hungry, why didn't she just say, "Let's eat?" He knew he still had a lot to learn about women. His years in the ATF had not been conducive to discovering much about their mysteries.

He cleared his throat and said, "Would you like to have dinner tonight?"

"I would, thank you. Where would you like to eat?"

He thought about the restaurants where he normally ate.

Alice said, "You've said nothing compares to your mom's cooking. We could go by the house."

"That's okay. I'd like to take you out somewhere nice."

"Somewhere without your family?"

"I wasn't gonna invite them, if that's what you mean."

She made a growling sound and slowed her treadmill. "You moron. Just what am I to you, I wonder?"

"Huh?" He didn't slow the machine. Once you hit your stride, you never let up.

"Am I your girlfriend? Workout partner? Buddy from the S.O.? You live at home and eat there most nights, but I still haven't met your family. Am I not good enough?"

"No," he said, meaning that she was good enough. She jumped off the fast-moving treadmill as he said, "I mean, you are certainly good enough; I just didn't realize it was an issue."

She stood in front of his treadmill. "I swear that for a smart guy you can be such a jackass." She spun on her heels, then stopped a few feet away and turned back, "I'll finish on the road. Go eat with your mama." She was out the gym door in seconds, and Duarte had nothing left to do but finish his treadmill workout and head home. Three hours early.

THE PANAMANIAN LOOKED AT THE CALLER ID ON HIS CELL phone and smiled. The phone was virtually untraceable, and only five people had the number. He had been waiting for this call. The idiot from Florida would do nicely, but before he agreed to the deal, he'd have to hear how the fat man was going to get the load into the U.S. How tight would customs be? How long would it take? Where would he cross? He couldn't use a go-fast boat. That's why he wanted to make the load of pot too big for a speed boat. He would need a freighter.

This might be the one. He'd waited too long to pay back the Americans. Since Christmas of 1989, he had put up with their arrogance and their rationalizations for why they invaded such a small country. He knew Noriega was a crook and a bastard, but he was their bastard. Now, after all these years, the American public would be reminded of their mistake.

Duarte sat at the dinner table with a plate of thin, pressed steak that some people called palomilla steak, a pile of sweet plantains and a salad. He hadn't eaten much, but his brother had gobbled down mountains of his mother's cooking.

She looked at him from the same seat from which she had looked at him for nearly thirty years and said almost the same thing. "You're not eating enough. Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes, Ma. Just got a lot going on right now."

His father, César Duarte, looked over and asked his same questions. "Did you do good work today, boys?"

"Yes, Pop," both grown men said at the same time.

Their father looked at Frank, the older by eighteen months. "What did you do?"

"Worked on a brief to have a suit dismissed against the Toyota dealer accused of selling cars that weren't roadworthy."

"The one who was cheating people with the warranty service?"

"Cheating is relative, Pop. I think they were just good businessmen, and people are jealous."

"Is the poor woman who can't feed her kids over on Tamarind Avenue jealous? That dealer is crooked."

Frank smiled that politician smile of his and said, "A crook maybe, but entitled to a lawyer at two hundred bucks an hour, absolutely."

Alex Duarte caught his father trying to contain himself. Plumbers have little use for services that don't help people. He had made it clear he didn't see how lawyers ever helped anyone.

The older man looked at his youngest son. "And Alex, what did you do today?"

"Just follow-up on our arrest."

Frank cut in. "Hey, you think the lady whose house you destroyed has an attorney?"

Both Alex and César ignored him. Alex Duarte had to smile, realizing just how much of his father's attitude he had adopted. "We might be able to work the case up the line to someone big."

César nodded, keeping his glare on Frank to ensure he had no more comments. Then he said, "Excellent. Will this case lead to a promotion?"

"Don't know, Pop. They may not be too happy with me turning down the last one."

His mother said, "But that would've taken you so far away."

Duarte just nodded, though Washington wasn't the reason he hadn't taken it; it was the case he had become involved in. He had allowed a prisoner to escape, and that had led to a series of horrific events, including the death of a young boy, Héctor Tannza, killed by a booby trap. Duarte had pursued the case across the country, all the way into the heart of a conspiracy that made him question whom he could trust. He had had to see the case through-but it had cost him the supervisor's job. He still had no regrets. Now he realized that a promotion would come when it came. He loved his parents, and even his brother, but if he had to move it wouldn't bother him. He had spent almost two years in the Balkans. The only one he would really miss if he moved was Alice. If she was still speaking to him.

Pelly drove the Cadillac SUV behind the older Dodge pickup truck on the uneven, narrow road that cut over toward the area near Colón on the east coast of Panama. The typical, bumpy, Panamanian mountain path was often called the Cocaine Highway, for obvious reasons.

Pelly said, "You really think that following those men in a separate vehicle is wise?"

His boss smiled as he looked out at the passing tropical foliage. "No, but my days of lifting and moving are over. These two have sat with it in the warehouse for a week. I want to keep the knowledge of the crate's contents as quiet as possible."

"What if Gastlin is working with the authorities? What if they find the package?"

"Pelly, I hope he is working with the DEA or customs. That means they'll be looking for drugs and nothing else. If they somehow discover our little present, then we'll be as hard to find as ever. We'll just wait and buy another. I have the feeling it's a buyer's market." He chuckled.

Pelly knew his employer's arrogance could get him killed, but he had proven to be a brilliant businessman in the past. He probably did know how to push things.

"You'll see, Pelly. This will be a great thing for Panama."

Pelly let his head bob to the bounces of the Cadillac. Maybe his boss would take it as a sign of agreement without Pelly actually having to agree with any part of this crazy plan.

His boss said, "I need some lunch. Pull ahead and have them follow us to the cantina near Gamboa."

Pelly heard the second line on his boss's cell phone ring with a distinctive tone. He always answered that one formally.

Alex Duarte liked the fact that the West Palm Beach office of the DEA had a secure room for placing special phone calls. His own ATF office, while in a much nicer building, was still cramped even with about a quarter as many agents. Because of the nature of their work, the DEA agents had to make undercover and overseas phone calls all the time. He sat back in the comfortable swivel chair while his friend, Félix Baez, continued to speak in Spanish on the phone. As Duarte listened, catching about a third of the words, he couldn't help but think of his parents and relatives telling him to learn Spanish. It couldn't hurt.