Tim Dorsey - Gator A-GO-GO

Randall’s face fell in his hands. “How long have you known?”

“Two days. Finally got an informant, someone on their inside. Been trying to get a pilot for years but, well, you’re the first.”

“Oh my God!” Randall just remembered. “My family!”

“All taken care of. Picked up your wife and son an hour ago.”

That’s what mattered most to Randall, the next less so: “How much prison am I looking at?”

“None. You testify, we put you in the witness program.”

“Where?”

“Won’t be as warm as here.”

“How long do I have to stay?”

“You don’t understand.” Ramirez gazed out the window as a DC-10 touched down at West Palm International. “These people never forget.”

THE PRESENT, MIDNIGHT

Pop.

Country uncapped a wine bottle in the backseat. “Nobody’s left the room for hours. Maybe they’re not there.”

“They’re still there, all right.” Serge leaned toward the windshield of the Challenger, strategically parked face-out in an alley with a full view of the Dunes. “They don’t want to open the door and give away their ambush position in case the kids are on their way back.”

“So why are we waiting over here?”

“Everyone eventually gets hungry.”

Another hour.

“Now I’m hungry,“ said City, stubbing out a roach.”Me, too,” said Country.

“So is someone else.” Serge looked up at the second floor, where a man had quickly slipped out the door of room 24, then pretended he hadn’t. He leaned nonchalantly against the landing’s rail, scanning the parking lot and street. All clear. Cowboy boots trotted down stairs.

The Challenger rolled out of the alley without headlights.

Boots clacked across the street and up the opposite sidewalk.

“You were right,” said Country. “He’s heading for Taco Bell.”

“I’d kill for a taco right now,” said City.

Serge pulled along the curb. “You’re going to get your wish.”

Pedro’s arms were weighed down with bags of grande meals when he finally came out the restaurant’s side door.

A distressed female voice: “What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” said City. “We might have to ask a stranger.”

“But that’s dangerous.”

“Excuse me.” Pedro politely bowed his head. “Couldn’t help but overhear. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Flat tire,” said Country, reaching in one of his bags for a taco.

“But the lug nuts are too tight.” City reached in another bag. “We’re not strong enough.”

Pedro puffed out his chest. “You beautiful ladies shouldn’t have to change a tire. Especially at night.”

“You’ll help us?” said Country.

“You’d really do something that nice?” said City.

“Of course Pedro will help you. Where’s your car?”

“Right around the corner. Just follow us.”

He did.

They turned the corner.

Pedro dropped his tacos. “Who’s that guy?”

“Oh,” said Country. “You mean the one with the gun?”

FIFTEEN YEARS AGO

Belle Glade sits near the middle of the state, on the southeast shore of Lake Okeechobee. The horizon low and flat. Cane elds forever. Plumes of dark smoke rose in various directions, some from intentional burns of harvested fields, others out the stacks of sugar-processing plants. Below the town was a prison camp. A yellow crop duster swooped, the one that terrorists with rashes on their hands had tried to hire. To the north, an uninviting, single-row motel with a leaking tar roof on the side of Route 715. Scraggly bushes, termite damage, a cracked office window fixed with masking tape.

The motel was almost always closed, except when the government needed it. Because it owned it.

Currently, no vacancy. Lights on in all eight rooms, but the front sign remained dark. Agents in T-shirts and jeans stood watch outside, pretending to work on a carburetor. They didn’t blend in. People of their sort never put up in the glades unless there’s a bad reason. All locals avoided them, except sheriff’s deputies, who knew something was up during their first stay but couldn’t get to the bottom of it despite hours of questioning in the parking lot. Almost blew the safe house. So feds began bringing tackle boxes and towing bass boats. Near every deputy fished that lake.

In the middle room, Randall Sheets rocked nervously on the edge of a bed. They’d just reeled him back from Detroit for his big day of testimony. A digital clock said five A.M. Ramirez sat facing him. “It’ll all be over in a few hours.”

“Can’t come soon enough.”

“Just remember what we talked about. The prosecutor will guide you through everything. Keep your answers direct and tell the truth. We’ll put them away.”

“I don’t see how my testimony can do that. I think the guys I was dealing with were at the bottom.”

“We have another witness. Management insulates themselves by staying away while the lower rungs get their hands dirty. Between the two of you…”-he interlaced his fingers-“… we connect the whole operation.”

“Will… they be there?”

“Not in the grand jury. Not even their defense attorneys. You have nothing to worry about.”

Three spaced knocks on the door.

An agent standing next to Ramirez-the one with the machine gun-went over and checked out the window. He opened the door.

Six more agents entered. “We’re ready.”

Everyone put on dark windbreakers with hoods. Ramirez handed one to Randall.

“What’s this for?”

“Just put it on.”

“Wait,” said Randall, looking around a room of identically dressed people. “Snipers?”

“Just an abundance of caution. Put it on.”

A string of headlights filled the dark parking lot. Engines running. Vehicles in a perfect line, facing the exit.

Room number 4 opened, and windbreakers ran for the convoy.

Pop, pop, pop. Sparks on the pavement. Pinging against fenders.

“Where’s Randall?” yelled Ramirez. “Get him down!”

Agents flattened the witness and formed a pile.

Pop, pop. Ping, ping.

“Where the hell’s that coming from?”

“Over there!” An agent braced behind a Bronco and returned fire toward distant muzzle flashes. “The cane field!”

“Get him in the car!” Ramirez slapped the trunk. “Go!”

The front half of the motorcade sped east into the waning night. The rest of the team remained behind, raking sugarcane with overwhelming firepower.

The convoy reached Twenty Mile Bend, dashboard needles at the century mark. Randall wanted to see outside, but they were sitting on him again. The approaching dawn brightened over Southern Boulevard, where they were joined by helicopters for the final turnpike leg to the federal courthouse in Miami-Dade County. But back then it was just Dade.

They brought Randall through a secure garage gate in back. He entered the courtroom and took the stand next to a jury with less interesting mornings.

Randall Sheets was, as they say, the perfect witness. Steady, confident testimony. Even he was surprised by his grace under pressure.

Indictments came down.

Across south Florida, a series of predawn raids.

The front door of a Spanish stucco house opened. The SWAT team brought Hector, Luis, and Juanita out in handcuffs-“Call the lawyers!”

Same scene at five other locations, two dozen associates in all. Everyone was booked. And bonded out just as quickly by one of Florida’s top law firms. TV crews waited in the street. “ Is it true you’re kingpins? ”

An agent in the Miami FBI office picked up a phone and dialed.