James Born - Burn Zone

The agent said, "Yeah, the cops think he had been hitchhiking, and a trucker or someone tossed him out of the vehicle, then shot him. Oh yeah, and he's got a Klan tattoo on his arm."

Duarte said, "Was the body found anywhere near a place called Santa Anna's Pit Stop?" He heard the agent ask someone else in the room.

"Yeah. Someone says it's across the street near an old motel." There was a pause and then, "How'd you know that?"

Duarte considered this, then said, "I've got some more checking to do, but I'll call you back tomorrow. Then I'll give you everything."

He hung up without waiting for an answer.

He was on to something.

Pelly felt his mouth drop open when they entered the cavernous warehouse in an industrial section of Houston. It felt like a giant aircraft hangar. The sheer space inside the metal walls and roof was mind-boggling. The stacks of crates and even full cargo containers were almost as impressive.

What surprised Pelly most was the fact that this giant industrial complex was owned by the Balast Corporation, which was a subsidiary of the Central Trust of the Americas, which was wholly owned by an unnamed individual whom Pelly knew to be Mr. Ortíz. Or, more accurately, his boss, Lázaro Staub.

Staub nudged him as someone hustled off to find the manager. "Not bad, eh, Pelly?"

"When did this happen?"

"We bought it three years ago as a transshipment point for goods going into and out of Central and South America."

"I never knew."

"No need to. This is completely legitimate. We never send loads here."

"But we'll use it for a nuclear bomb?"

Staub chuckled. "You worry too much. It'll only be here long enough for Dr. Tuznia to arm it. Then the professor will be paid, and he'll go back to whatever low-paid college job he has."

"What are we paying him with?"

"Cash."

"You have that much cash with you?"

"Of course not. I had it shipped here."

Pelly saw a heavyset middle-aged man hustle down the steps of a glass office in the corner of the giant hangar. Even though the whole facility was air-conditioned, Pelly could see this piglike man sweating as he bolted toward them.

He wheezed. "Mr. Ortíz. It's an honor to have you visit."

The man had the Texas twang Pelly had heard in the movies.

The colonel said, "Thank you indeed, Mr. Duplantis. I hope you were told I might be utilizing the warehouse this evening for an hour or so."

"Yes sir. We slow way down after five, so it's no problem."

Pelly caught the man's eyes darting to him and noticed the startled look on his face. Pelly didn't care. He was still upset over meeting, then losing, Lina and then finding out she was the FBI agent Colonel Staub had been working with all along.

Pelly ran his hand over his cheeks, and even he was a little surprised how hairy they had become. He gave the warehouse manager a slight snarl and smiled to himself when he saw the man flinch.

There was nothing to do now but wait for the Ukrainian nuclear scientist Dr. Tuznia. And for William Floyd.

IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON, AND ALEX DUARTE HAD PUSHED THE tiny Cobalt he had rented to its limit of about seventy-five miles per hour. It was the last car in the Hertz office at their hotel in New Orleans. Now, Duarte, Lina Cirillo and Félix Baez were already past Lafayette, well on the way to Houston.

Lina, in the passenger seat, said, "I gotta say that when you called me this morning I never thought I'd be on my way to Houston this afternoon. I'll say one thing for you, you are decisive."

From the backseat, Félix Baez chimed in. "I still think this whole thing sounds thin. The radioactive cargo. The lead. Our trip. I don't see how this will help us find out who killed Gastlin." He sat amid a half-empty case of Beck's beer.

Duarte didn't like that his partner had started drinking as soon as they left at nine in the morning. He said, "I told you, I did some checking with the Houston ATF. The phone call to Jessup's house from Jacinto City near Houston is only a few hundred yards from where the body of the Klan guy was found last night. It's too much of a coincidence." Duarte didn't want Félix to think they had forgotten about his murdered informant. "Besides, this might tie into Gastlin's death. If we're really trying to help find that cargo, then this is the right move. New Orleans is covered by the NEST team. They wouldn't be following up on something like this."

That answer seemed to satisfy Félix.

Duarte kept his foot pressed to the floor as the small engine whined and they moved closer to Houston.

Félix said, "Still wish we could've found a flight."

Lina shot back, "You wouldn't have been able to drink this much on a plane."

Duarte calmed them both down by adding, "If none of us are supposed to be on this case, it's best that there is no record of where we travel right now."

Thanks to the wonders of computer-generated maps, they found the crime scene a few minutes after exiting the interstate highway. A lone patrolman sat in his cruiser keeping the scene secure until a final search could be made.

The sun was low, but still provided enough light to see the area.

Duarte identified himself and asked a few questions. The patrolman only knew that someone walking his dogs had found the body and that it had been dead only a short while when it was found. No one had heard anything or seen anything.

Then they found the pay phone in front of the little store named Santa Anna's Pit Stop. It appeared to be little used.

As Duarte surveyed the area from the phone, he turned to Lina, who was doing the same thing. "The only thing I see worthwhile is the hotel."

Lina said, "The cops already checked it."

"But they didn't have a photo of who they were looking for."

Lina said, "Good point. Let's go."

They let Félix snooze in the backseat as they parked in front of the little office of the Jacinto Arms. The young woman on duty looked as happy to see Duarte and Lina as she would to see masked robbers.

"Sixty-five a night is the best I can do." She said it with no emotion, almost like a computer.

Duarte flashed his identification. "Just have a few questions."

"Already talked to the cops. Don't know nothin'."

Duarte held up the driver's license photo of William Floyd and set it on the small counter. "Was this guy a guest here?"

Her big brown eyes slowly tracked down to the photo, and then she actually seemed interested for a moment as she studied the photo. "Yeah, he was here."

"Can I see his registration?"

She fumbled with a few cards next to her computer and handed Duarte one.

He looked it over, but all it said was "Bill Johnson, New York."

Duarte said, "You get anything else from him? What he was driving? Any information could help."

She nodded and typed in a few keys. "He was drivin' a Ryder truck but said he was done with it. I didn't see what he left in." She handed a sheet of paper from the printer to Duarte. "But he asked for directions here. It was still in my Mapquest on the computer. No one else needed directions."

Duarte stared at not only the address where Floyd was headed but a concise map, too. Man, was modern police work getting easier.

Pelly and Staub had eaten a good meal at a chain sports bar a few miles from the warehouse. It was the first restaurant Pelly had seen in the area. Now they were sitting in a small office by one of the doors to the warehouse, waiting for both William Floyd and a professor from a nearby university whom the colonel had somehow heard would arm his nuclear weapon for a crateful of cash.

Pelly hadn't looked in the sealed crate yet, but knew the footlocker-size box did indeed have a lot of cash in it.