The Covert Element (29 page)

"I’m sure you’re right about this Mexican drug rumor." Gunner
was doing his best to regain control of the conversation. "Anyway,
just maybe keep an eye out for kids lookin’ for mischief, okay?"

Gunner stood. I didn’t.

Marsden stood as well. I remained in my seat.

"Mr. Marsden . . ."

Gunner interrupted me.

"C’mon, Beck. Time to let Mr. Marsden get back about his
business." He gave me a stern look.

I stood.

"Okay," I said. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Marsden. But I’d
keep an eye out for any signs of meth cooking if I were you." Gunner
pushed me toward the door. "God-awful stuff, that meth. Poisonous
just to be around it."

"Thanks for your time. Sorry for the interruption."

Marsden waved tentatively as Gunner gave me the bum’s rush
out of the office. Last I saw, that lip was still beaded with sweat.

Gunner and I didn’t speak on the way back to his car. I’m
pretty sure he was pissed. We got back in the cruiser. Gunner
started the engine and the A/C, then turned to face me.

"What the hell was that?"

"Just a friendly visit. You didn’t seem to be getting anywhere,
so I thought I’d pitch in."

I smiled.

"Why don’t you just tell him he’s a suspect in the largest
murder case in Minnesota history?"

"I would’ve. I thought you’d want me to be more subtle."

Gunner gripped the steering wheel.

"That was subtle? Dammit, Becker! Now he knows we’re onto
him."

"So what?"

"So he gets all his buddies and hides all the evidence and we
never catch the sonofabitch, that’s what."

"Gunner, that’s not how drug cartels operate. They’ve made a
big investment in this production facility. They’re not bailing out
because some hick deputy and a loudmouth lawyer start flinging
rumors around."

"So whatta you think they’re gonna do, Mr. Drug Cartel
Expert?"

I settled in my seat and fastened the shoulder belt.

"Probably try to kill us."

I wasn’t looking at Gunner, but I could almost see the "what
the hell have you gotten me into now" look forming on his face.

"Well . . . ain’t that peachy."

"Aw c’mon, Gunner. If you’re going after the big fish, you gotta
dangle some bait. Is there somebody else you had in mind for that
job? You had to know they’d come after us at some point. Why don’t
we
say when instead of
them
?"

Gunner had calmed considerably.

"So what do you propose we do now that we’re in the cross
hairs?"

I punched a button on my cell.

"I don’t know about you, but I’m calling Beth to tell her to get
out of the house before any unwanted visitors come calling. I doubt
the cartel can act that quickly. But better safe than sorry."

Gunner reached for the police radio as we pulled out of the
Bellechester Organic parking lot on our way back to the LEC.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

It was nearing 5:00 p.m. when Beth Becker received her
husband’s call. At first, she resisted the suggestion that she toss the
dinner she’d been preparing into the garbage and grab her to-go
bag. Her husband always worried about her too much.

When he told her to bring her gun, her mind-set changed.
Although his words had said leaving the house immediately was
merely a precaution, his tone said otherwise. She wasn’t sure if she
was more angry or afraid. She knew she was plenty of both.
What
the hell had he gotten her into?

She and her husband always kept "to-go bags" packed with
essentials just in case they needed to depart quickly. The duffles
contained things like a change of clothes, medicine, cash, toiletries,
etc. Hers also contained a notebook computer. She hated to be
without a decent web connection as much as he hated to be without
a gun. Her bag was upstairs in her closet.

She slid the stir-fry into the trash and put the pans in the
dishwasher. Then she left the kitchen, trotting up the central
stairway to retrieve her bag and gun.

Minutes later, as she toted the bag back down the stairs, the
front doorbell rang. Beth stopped short.

Through the front door glass she saw a man dressed in jeans
and a dark T-shirt standing on her porch. There was a lot of glass in
the Becker’s front entryway on Jefferson Avenue. Even though it
was lighter outside than in, Beth knew he would be able to see her
motions inside the house if they weren’t subtle.

She glided down the last few steps, directly toward the danger.
He hadn’t seen her yet. The doorbell chimed again. Turning the
corner at the base of the stairs, Beth could see the man on the porch
was Hispanic . . . and muscular. He glanced repeatedly side to side,
and then across the street as he waited.

Slipping around the foyer closet, Beth was out of his sight and
nearing the kitchen. She picked up her pace, grabbing car keys as
she slid open the door to the back porch. Now she was in full stride.
She should be able to make it to the car and out of the garage before
the stranger could get through the side gate and reach her.

In a flash, she was off the porch and through the garage door.

Slam.

Even if he’d heard the back screen door closing, that should be
okay. Beth was thankful that she always parked the Spyder
convertible facing the alley and not nose-in to the garage. The
ragtop was down. She tossed the to-go bag in the back seat and
slipped into the front bucket.

As she pushed the opener button, her hand fumbled fitting the
key into the ignition. By the time she had started the car, the garage
door was halfway up.

Just as she was beginning to catch her breath, the Hispanic
man rounded the vine-covered back fence. When he saw her, he
came to a stop in the middle of the pavement. For a moment, he
and Beth locked eyes. He smiled, advancing slowly toward the hood
of the silver Mitsubishi, one hand reaching toward the small of his
back.

Beth knew he had a gun back there, and she had few options.
Selecting the most compelling, she jammed the five-speed into gear,
revved the engine, and dropped the clutch.

By the time the man had rolled off the convertible’s hood and
sprawled into the alley, the smile had left his face. Beth didn’t wait
to see if he had recovered from the collision. The Spyder’s tires
squealed on the alley pavement and again as the silver bullet made
the corner onto Hill Street and away, leaving the Hispanic man
writhing in the dusty driveway.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

When we arrived back at the LEC, Gunner and I had just about
formed a plan of action for dealing with the cartel. It involved
gathering enough evidence to convince the BCA, FBI, or possibly
Homeland Security or even ICE to help us out. We still needed to
tidy up a few details. I reluctantly conceded a few minutes in
Gunner’s office to firm things up.

It didn’t take long, but I was anxious to meet Beth. I really
didn’t think anything would happen today. The cartel would surely
want to run this sort of thing up some chain of command.
Wouldn’t
they?
But I hated to leave anything to chance.

I jogged out the LEC’s main doors toward the Pilot. As soon as
I had opened the front door, something hit me in the back of the
head. Then all was black.

* * *

When I came to, I wasn’t sure if it was my throbbing head, or
the jostling from the small boat, that had awakened me. I was lying
on a hard, aluminum hull . . . my head pounding on a barely padded
wooden board. Whoever it was, they had bound my hands behind
me and covered me with a heavy canvas tarp. We were now
motoring on the river in a small fishing boat.

My head still wasn’t working right. But I knew I needed to
remain still, lest I suffer another blow to the skull. I also knew I had
to activate the micro-GPS transmitter that Beth had insisted upon
sewing into the back of each of my leather belts. One might think
that a belt buckle would be a better spot to hide a transmitter. That
would probably be true if the bad guys didn’t always bind your
hands
behind
you in the crucial situations. Beth’s placement turned
out to be perfect. I activated the electronic beacon without
difficulty.

As the pounding of hull on water continued, it was all I could
do to remain still and not cry out in pain. Cresting the wakes of
larger boats in a small craft was a rough enough experience when
properly seated in the boat. This head-on-board position was a real
bitch.

Please don’t try this at home. Professional driver on closed
course.

At least I hadn’t lost my sense of humor.

The vibration and banging of the boat hull continued for what I
guessed to be another ten minutes before the motor slowed to an
idle. I felt my body roll to port as the boat made a sharp starboard
turn. I tried to let myself move as though unconscious. Had I not
had actual training in that possum-playing maneuver, the correct
motion would have been a challenge to figure out. It can be difficult
to consciously overcome instincts – especially when pain is
involved.

Presently, the engine revved again and I could hear the
grinding of sand against the hull as they beached the boat. There
were voices now. Two of them, speaking in Spanish. It sounded like
a Mexican dialect, though it’s hard to tell when under a tarp with a
head that’s beating like a bass drum.

After planting an anchor somewhere farther up on shore, the
two men managed to heave my 185 pounds of dead weight out of
the boat. Then one took me on his shoulder and stumbled forward,
up the sloping sand. The other went ahead. A door hinge creaked.
The man carrying me ducked as he carried me through. A screen
door slammed. I landed unceremoniously in a tarp-covered heap on
a concrete floor. I released my breath on impact, as I had been
taught, then resumed normal breathing.

Even through the oily tarp, the smells of the river were
everywhere. This place smelled of decay, fish carcasses, and rotting
mayflies. No one could possibly live here.

One of the men grasped the edge of the tarp and rolled my limp
body onto the concrete. Again, my head banged. I still made no
sound. I did chance a peek through the slit of one eye.

The walls were of cinder block, with square screen windows.
The illumination appeared to come from a ceiling bulb behind me.

They spoke again in Spanish.

"What do we do with him now?"

"We find out what he knows. Then we kill him and throw him
into the river. Wake him."

The first man shoved my shoulder with a boot. I rolled, but
gave no sign of waking. Someone poured cold water on my head. I
stifled the urge to cringe and remained motionless.

"Maybe he is dead."

"Check his neck to see if his heart beats."

Fingers probed for my jugular. I hadn’t been trained to stop the
throb in my arteries.

"He lives. His heart is still beating."

"Take your knife, Miguel, and twist it slowly into his thigh. If he
is pretending to sleep, he will awaken."