Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (73 page)

 
          
Salazar
found him in a twisted heap on the side of the runway, his eyes full of pain.
Kneeling down in front of Hermosa’s face, he turned to the soldier standing
behind him who had shot Hermosa: “You said it was a note he passed to that
crewman of the Sukhoi?”

 
          
“Yes,
Colonel, I first saw him pull the wheel chocks so I moved across to warn him
that your orders were to try to keep the plane from taking off. When I saw him
throw the note into the cockpit, I suspected something ...”

 
          
Salazar
nodded, then looking at Hermosa, said, “You probably shot an informer. Is that
right,
Field Captain?”

 
          
Hermosa
attempted a feeble reply. Salazar bent down to listen. “This ... is for the
children you murdered . . .” and he managed to spit into Salazar’s face.

 
          
Salazar
didn’t flinch. He showed the blade of a stiletto to Hermosa, then drew the
razor-sharp blade across Hermosa’s throat.

 
          
“Bury
him with the other trash,” Salazar ordered. “I want his office and belongings
searched. I want to know why he passed a note to a Russian fighter crew
—if
they were Russians . . . Russians .
. . ? the only thing really Russian about them was their aircraft. Without that
Sukhoi-27 they could have been Americano ...”

 
          
Salazar
had his UHF walkie-talkie in hand. “Control, this is Salazar. I want all flight
commanders and squadron chiefs to meet in the briefing room in five minutes.
See to it that it is set up for an operational strike briefing. Do not call
Field Captain Hermosa—he will not be joining us.”

 
 
          
Sunrise
Beach
Club

 
          
Thirty Minutes Later

 
          
The
huge Indian aide, Salman, filled the doorway as he looked unsmiling at Sandra
Geffar, one hand on the open door, the other on the door frame.

 
          
“Hello,
Salman,” Geffar said, removing her sunglasses and placing them in her
Ilight-jacket pocket. She wore a flight suit and flying boots, and despite the
growing heat of the day she had kept her lightweight jacket on during the ride
from the Hammerheads’ base to the quiet seaside community. “How are you today?”

 
          
So
saying, she tried to step through the door but Salman was immobile as a tree.

 
          
“Is
something wrong?”

 
          
“I
am sorry, Miss Geffar, but Mr. Van Nuys is engaged in a business meeting and
has asked that he not be disturbed. He instructed me to show you to the sun
garden, where he will meet you for lunch.”

 
          
Geffar
turned toward the walkway, then suddenly reached over her shoulder, grabbed
Salman’s arm, twisted her hip away and executed a classic judo throw. The
three-hundred-pound Indian butler spun over Geffar’s right hip and down the
stairs, landing like a pallet of bricks on the slate flagstones below.

 
          
But
he was also a trained bodyguard, and he knew how to take a fall. He landed hard
but was back on his feet in an instant, his left hand reaching inside his coat
for the gun. Geffar was expecting that, and her .45 caliber Smith and Wesson
automatic was in her hand and leveled at Salman’s chest before he could regain
his balance.

 
          
“Don’t
move or you’re dead.” Salman raised his hands clear of his coat. Immediately
two Border Security Drug Enforcement agents, with
Monroe
County
sheriffs as backup, surrounded Salman,
handcuffed him and led him away.

 
          
“Nice
throw,” one of the agents said. He handed Geffar a Kevlar body-armor jacket and
a Hammerheads operations helmet—bulletproof, with built-in radios, lights and
face protectors.

 
          
Geffar
nodded as she strapped on the helmet, replaced her flight jacket with the body
armor, and activated the communications link in the helmet. “I’ll go through
first, see if I can draw Van Nuys into the open,” she told the agents and
deputies. “He’s got this place wired for sound and video and I’m sure he’s been
alerted, so be careful.” She pointed at the four deputies, who had on
communications headsets so they could monitor the Hammerheads’ tactical
frequency. “Go to the back but stay behind cover. You people”—she pointed at
two of the DEA agents, adjusting their own body armor— “follow me in, then take
the upstairs. You others, check the office and bedrooms on the east side.
There’s a doorway that leads to the basement at the end of the hallway through
the utility room. This place has a huge cellar and he might be down there.

 
          
“There’s
a driver, and he’s bigger than Salman, so watch for him. There might be others.
They obviously know we’re here and they’re not coming out. Don’t hesitate.” She
hefted the .45 and stepped back through the doorway.

 
          
Geffar
looked in through the doorway, scanning for any movement inside. Nothing. She
pushed the door open wider, moved the helmet’s microphone away from her lips.
“Occupants, U. S. Border Security, search warrant.” She waited a few seconds
for any sign of movement, heard nothing, moved inside.

 
          
As
she moved across the threshold she withdrew a folded set of papers and held it
up to one of the far corners of the room, where she knew a wide-angle security
camera was hidden—with that system Van Nuys could monitor his estate inside and
outside from several places in the house.

 
          
“Max,
this is Sandra Geffar,” she called out—if he was anywhere in the house he would
hear her. “This is a search warrant.” She held it up, then dropped it behind
the door and resumed her two-handed grip on the pistol. “The place is
surrounded, the airport is closed and a Hammerheads vessel is blocking the
marina. We’ve got Salman in custody. If you run you’ll be shot. Give yourself
up.”

 
          
Nothing,
she moved the microphone back to her lips. “Deputies, move to the back. Watch
the second-floor balconies.” Geffar reached up to her helmet and clicked a
button that activated a microphone that would amplify sounds in the rooms
around her. She could, among other things, hear the hum of the refrigerator in
the kitchen, ice cubes clattering into a bucket from the icemaker behind the
bar in the great room, and sea gulls outside on the back lawn.

 
          
The
basement of Van Nuys’ huge house was Geffar’s main concern—he could hide an
army down there. She walked through the kitchen, carefully checking the pantry
and storage closets, and stood in front of the door that led to the basement
suites. Centering the helmet’s microphone on the door, Geffar held her breath
and listened.

 
          
The
faint creak of wood, breathing, a hard swallow—someone behind the door.

 
          
“Border
Security, anyone behind that basement door come out hands up.”

 
          
“I’m
coming out, coming out...” It was Bullock, Van Nuys’ driver. The door was
pushed open a few inches, nobody appeared.

 
          
“Bullock,
toss your gun out—”

 
          
Through
the directional mike she heard the too-familiar
snik
of a hammer being cocked into position, followed by a sharp
intake of air into lungs, and she dived for the floor just as six holes erupted
out of the wooden door, the subsonic rounds sounding like hammer blows as they
crashed through the door. From her position, Geffar traced a figure-eight
pattern of .45 caliber slugs around the center of the holes Bullock had made in
the door. She heard a short cry of pain, then the sound of a body falling,
thumping down the stairs.

 
          
Two
DEA agents and two sheriff
⁵
s deputies with M-16 rifles appeared
beside her. As one deputy covered the door, the other inched it open, turned to
his partner. “Cover me.”

 
          
“Don’t
try it,” Geffar said after one of the DEA agents helped her up. “The basement
goes on forever. Tear gas the basement and call for a K-9 unit and more
backup.” One deputy went off to relay the request.

 
          
“We're
upstairs,” one of the other agents announced to her over the radio. “Bedrooms,
bathrooms, den, attic all secure.”

 
          
“Get
a team up there and search the place,” she radioed back. “Breezeway connects to
the driver’s office in the garage—check that out, too.”

 
          
“Roger.
I-team is moving in.”

 
          
Geffar
suddenly felt very tired. After seeing the note that the Cuban drug smuggler
had passed to McLanahan, the note with Van Nuys’ name on it, she had felt a
chill, and a shock she had thought she had long ago insulated herself against.
For a while she had almost let herself believe something might be possible with
this man ... and then the weariness gave way to the anger that had replaced the
hope

 
          
She
got to her feet and went to the back patio, reloading her .45 with a fresh clip
as she made her way out into the hazy sun. One of the Hammerheads’ Cigarette
ocean interceptor yachts was patrolling the area just outside the marina, ready
to chase down any suspect, and three small Florida Marine Patrol vessels
cruised through the marina itself searching for Van Nuys. A Sky Lion tilt-rotor
drone with its large bug-eyed surveillance dome on its belly hovered a few
hundred feet over the Sunrise Beach Club, electronically scanning for a sign of
Van Nuys or his car.

 
          
Geffar
could hear the progress reports on the helmet radio, including one that did not
surprise her—Van Nuys’ Jaguar was at the airport, and one of his planes was
missing. It appeared that he had managed to escape just before the Hammerheads
could close in on him.

 
          
“Did
you copy that report?” one of the DEA agents queried over the radio. “Van Nuys
skipped.”

 
          
“Get
a report from Hammerhead One,” she replied, “and see if they got a radar plot
on any aircraft leaving
Sunrise
Beach
. Continue the search.”

 
          
Geffar
walked to the edge of the immaculately groomed lawn off the back of the estate
on the marina side of the spit of land on which the estate was located. To the
right was the pool, the garages. Beyond was the marina and the narrow channel
that led to Old Rhodes Key. To the left was the main driveway from the
development to the house, a drainage ditch under the road, patches of trees and
bushes that bordered Van Nuys’ property, and beyond, a narrow beach and the
Atlantic Ocean
. This northern tip of Key Largo had been
coveted for decades by the rich and famous; and although the main house had
been redecorated and expanded several times it was in essence the same mansion
that had stood on this property for almost a hundred years . . . including
Prohibition years when this coastal part of south Florida was a haven for
whiskey smugglers . . .

 
          
Geffar
now drew her pistol and followed the driveway out toward the drainage ditch
that emptied into the ocean. Although the brush and debris appeared
near-impenetrable, the ditch itself was wide and deep—and there was a small
rubber raft bobbing in the shallow water, partially hidden in the darkness of
the aqueduct . . .

 
          
“Hello
there,” Maxwell Van Nuys said as he appeared from under the drainage pipe
beside the raft, his expensive suit smudged from where he had had to squeeze
through the drainage system to the hidden escape point.

 
          
She
leveled her pistol on him. “You almost made it,” she said. “They found your car
and the missing plane—they were ready to call it off ”

 
          
“An
old bootlegger’s escape-and-supply system,” he said with studied calmness,
motioning inside the aqueduct. “The house has several levels of basements. Most
are underwater or caving in but there’s one level where they had this nifty
escape corridor from the house to the ocean.”