James Swain - The Program

Carpenter joined Linderman on the dock. He’d been hiding in the bushes with his dog, and was munching on a piece of beef jerky.

“The old honey trap,” Carpenter said.

“Whatever gets the job done,” Linderman replied.

They watched Vick and Humbero go into the motel room. Thirty seconds later, Linderman’s cell phone vibrated. It was Vick.

“We’ve got him,” she said.

“Did he put up a fight?” Linderman asked.

“Yeah. It took three police officers to hold him down.”

“Nice going. Keep him in the room until we get back.”

“Will do. Good luck, Ken.”

“Thanks, Rachel.”

Linderman folded the phone and climbed into a rented boat tied up to the dock. Carpenter cranked up the outboard motor and soon they were on open water. The boat was filled with fishing gear, poles, a plastic pail filled with live bait, and cooler for their catch. Jack’s dog sat in the bow, wearing a bright red bandana. It filled out the picture, and made them look like a pair of old hippies, a common sight in the Keys.

A mild chop was blowing from the east. Linderman rode with one hand holding the rim of his Marlins’ cap, the other clutching the Glock in his pocket. He should have been apprehensive, maybe even a little scared, but he wasn’t. He had waited six years for this day, and felt relieved to have finally reached the end of his long journey.

A patrol boat sitting in the bay tooted its horn. The four Mexican-American FBI agents who made up the rest of their team were onboard, ready to follow them onto the island. Taking off his cap, Linderman waved to them.

They neared Manatee Key. The waters were crystal clear, filled with coral and colorful fish. Carpenter killed the engine, then grabbed a paddle and started to row.

“Current’s strong. Give me a hand,” he said.

Their boat was drifting away from the island. Linderman felt the thrush of panic and grabbed the other paddle. He rowed like there was no tomorrow, and propelled the boat through the water to the dock. Their bow banged on a piling.

“We’ve got company,” Carpenter said.

One of Maldonado’s men came walking down the dock. He was another flashy dresser, and wore a billowing red silk shirt and white linen pants, his spiked hair standing straight up. He pointed a sawed-off shotgun at their boat.

“Leave,” the man said.

“Can you spare a gallon of gas to get us back to the mainland?” Carpenter asked.

“You can row,” the man replied.

“The current’s murder. My friend almost had a heart attack.”

Linderman felt the man’s suspicious gaze. He looked up and smiled feebly. It seemed to soften him.

“Stay here. I’ll be right back,” the man said.

The man turned around and started to leave. Carpenter hopped onto the dock, and drew a 1908 Colt Pocket Hammerless from his pants, which he stuck in the man’s back.

“Put your gun on the dock. Then turn around. Do it real slow,” Carpenter said.

The man did not lay his shotgun down. Instead, he pointed the barrel at the ground, and slowly turned around. Linderman drew his Glock and stepped out of the boat.

“FBI,” he said.

“Where is your warrant? You have no right to come here,” the man said.

Linderman pulled the search warrant from his back pocket and waved it in the man’s face without taking his eyes off him. “Lay your weapon on the dock.”

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“I won’t tell you again,” the FBI agent said.

The shotgun came up fast. Linderman shot the man three times in the chest. The bullets shredded his pretty shirt, and he flew backwards over the dock into the water, sinking to the bottom with air bubbles pouring from his mouth. Standing on the edge of the dock, Linderman waved to the patrol boat that it was safe to join them. The sound of a sputtering engine echoed across the water.

“Sounds like they’re stalled,” Carpenter said. “You want to wait for them?”

“No. Come on.”

They ran down the dock and stepped through a tall hedge into another world. The island was as lush as a jungle, the shaded ground noticeably cooler. The path they were on went two ways. Carpenter pointed to his left, where the pool and guest house were.

“I hear singing,” he whispered.

Linderman heard the music as well. It sounded like bad karaoke.

“I’ll deal with this guy. Go find your baby,” Carpenter said.

Linderman sprinted up the path in the other direction, which led to the main house. Carpenter’s dog ran ahead of him. He turned to make sure Carpenter was okay with it, but his friend was already gone.

The path led to a one-story Spanish Colonial with a screened lanai filled with orchids and beautifully plumed Macaws and Cockatoos free of cages. Water trickled down a man-made waterfall, the sound as sweet as music.

He gained entrance through a screen door. The birds began to flap their wings and squawk nosily. The dog crossed the lanai to silence them.

“Get back here,” Linderman said.

The birds continued to complain. A glass slider opened, and a grossly overweight man wearing a black Speedo stepped onto the lanai. He was a poster boy for indulgence, his skin so darkened by the sun that it looked radioactive.

“Enough,” the man said to the birds.

“Oliver Maldonado?” Linderman asked.

Seeing him for the first time, the overweight man stepped back in alarm.

“That is I. Who are you? And why is that dog here?” he asked.

“I’m with the FBI. You’re under arrest,” Linderman said.

“You have no right to be in my home. Leave!”

“Put your hands where I can see them.”

“I will do nothing of the sort.”

Gunfire echoed across the property, followed by a man’s hoarse scream, then the sound of a body hitting water with a loud Smack! The birds let out a chorus of high-pitched screams. Maldonado seized the distraction and vanished inside.

“Get him,” Linderman said.

The dog gave chase. Linderman followed and entered the house. He stood inside a high-ceilinged space filled with dark furniture and plush leather couches. The trappings of wealth were everywhere – a sixty-inch plasma TV, a giant aquarium filled with exotic fish, a bar befitting a posh nightclub, the walls covered with electric guitars autographed by famous musicians – but no Maldonado.

“Where is he?” Linderman asked.

The dog ran to a bookcase which covered one wall, and began to frantically scratch its base with his front paws. Linderman followed, the feeling of panic again taking hold. He had not come this far to lose Danni.

The books were fake, and glued together. He pulled the bookcase away from the wall and sent it toppling to the floor. Behind it was a darkened passageway.

He ran down it with the dog.

At the passageway’s end was a locked door. He kicked it down, then stepped over the door and entered a narrow hallway with a skylight. Maldonado stood at the hallway’s end, holding a gun by his side, his entire body trembling.

“You have no right to be here,” Maldonado protested.

Linderman saw another door at the hallway’s end. Danni was on the other side of that door. Maldonado was going to shoot her, just like the waitress in Caracas.

“I order you to leave,” Maldonado said.

“She’s my daughter,” Linderman said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The girl you’re holding prisoner is my daughter.”

“Get out of my house!”

“Admit what you did.”

Maldonado grabbed the door knob. The bullet hit him in the stomach. He staggered backward, then slid to the floor and lay on his back.

“You shot me,” he gasped.

Linderman kicked his gun away, then stood over the man who’d robbed him of his daughter’s laughter for six years. Hanging around Maldonado’s neck was a small key. Linderman knew what the key was for, and ripped it from his neck.