INFORMANT (25 page)

Day Eighty-Seven

Forty-five minutes after Midnight

Pier 96 is deserted. At least it appears that way. It’s nothing more than a series of ugly, dilapidated warehouses that precariously jut out over the bay. The stench of dead fish, brackish water, and sewage stifles the air. Plans to turn the facility and surrounding acreage into some kind of major recycling center were drawn up years ago, but stalled at the permit department in City Hall. Or maybe the financers backed out.

Either way, all that’s left is a broad, ugly pier and warehouses that look like bombed-out tenement housing. We’ve been here for nearly three hours. By ‘we’ I mean the Cubans—with whom Ronnie and I are temporarily aligned. Or held hostage, to put it more accurately.

There are fourteen of us in total. Ronnie and me, plus Miguel and Ricco, Uncle Julio, and the assorted crew of thickly muscled killers who follow in their footsteps. They are all heavily armed and have stationed ourselves at various points around the pier—behind piles of wooden pallets, metal dumpsters, broken-down machinery, empty shipping containers. There’s no shortage of places to hide.

It’s also dark as hell. The fog is thicker than usual, and there’s no moon. (I assume that was deliberate. If I was smuggling drugs, guns, and cash into a city, I wouldn’t schedule it on a night when the moon was full.)

They’ve separated Ronnie and me. I had hoped, once everyone was here, we might be able to make a break for it. Ricco has ensured that that’s not going to happen. Ronnie’s with Miguel and his men, I’m with Ricco. I won’t leave Ronnie here alone, and he won’t abandon me. We’re in this to the end.

A breeze blows in off the bay and I shiver. It’s mid-December, and I’ve been huddled against a steel hut (some kind of guard station?) for almost three hours. I can’t help but think of the coat I carelessly left behind. If I could see my fingers, I’m sure I’d find they had already turned blue. My muscles are aching from squatting in one position for so long, and my nerves are raw.

The longer we wait, the more tenuous become my odds of living long enough to see the sun rise. What if Morris’s information is wrong? What if Sun Yee arranged a different place or time? What if Beckett, Reardon, and the rest of the DEA aren’t here? There’s certainly no sign of them anywhere. I tell myself that’s good, even though the lack of any sign of the DEA’s presence terrifies me.

I hear a noise—at least I think I do. There’s a concert at Candlestick Park tonight, and every so often the muffled roar of the crowd echoes our way. But this is different. This sounds like a… lawnmower? I shoot a puzzled glance at Ricco in time to see him smile. He shifts his position and reaches for his gun.

It takes my terror-addled brain an additional thirty seconds to process what I’m hearing. Not a lawnmower. The outboard motor of a boat. Sun Yee’s men. The sound of men murmuring in Mandarin carries off the bay, confirming it.

The motor gets louder as it approaches, then cuts off. Three short flashes of light. A signal, apparently, for less than a minute later two large, unmarked vans race past us, shuddering to a stop at the end of the pier. Doors open, slam shut. The drivers leave the engine idling. Figures emerge from both the boat and the vans, their bodies are partially illuminated by the light of an electric lantern, partially shrouded by the fog. They look as though they’re already ghosts.

Moving quickly, they form a chain line and pass crates off the boat and into the waiting vans. 

Beside me, Ricco tenses. He is poised, panther-like, with his gun in his hand, ready to pounce. He glances to his left, clearly waiting for a signal.

Fear chokes me. I feel like I should do something, warn somebody, but I don’t know how. I’m frozen, unable to move. My limbs are locked in place, rigid with terror. My heart is drumming so loudly I’m amazed no one else can hear it.

Sun Yee’s men are nearly finished transferring the crates when a sharp whistle rips through the night.

Miguel’s signal. All hell breaks loose.

I am conditioned to watching things like this happen in the movies. On TV. I expect a pause for dramatic dialogue before the first shot is fired. I expect wordy explanations followed by warnings to surrender the goods and back away. I am an idiot. Miguel Diaz has the element of surprise, and he’s not going to waste it by making speeches.

Gunfire explodes all around me. Ricco lunges forward, bringing up his weapon. He fires repeatedly into the night. Sun Yee’s men swing their guns around and fire back. Bullets whiz over my head and ricochet off the metal walls of the guard shack. This is gang warfare, and it’s every bit as brutal and ugly as Beckett warned me it would be. I go completely flat, throwing my arms over my head.

The next second, the entire pier is lit up. Floodlights everywhere. A helicopter whirls overhead, its searchlight trained on us. A loudspeaker announces, “DEA. Drop your weapons and freeze. You’re all under arrest.”

The announcement only creates more havoc. No one freezes, and no one drops his weapon. Just the opposite occurs. There’s more gunfire, more pandemonium, more screaming.

Beckett. My blood goes cold. Where is he? I try to picture him hunkered down, his weapon drawn. Instead my brain fires an image of him hurt, bleeding. Oh, God. Please, no. Not that. And what about Ronnie? Where is he?

I frantically scan the pier, but don’t see either one. I stay where I am, curled into a tight ball. I don’t dare move. The gunfire is insanely loud. Rapid. Some men drop—Dead? Wounded? Surrender?—it’s impossible to tell. Some continue to fire until they’re stopped by a bullet. Others run. A few leap from the pier into the frigid, filthy water and attempt to swim away.

Sirens and flashing blue lights, the whirl of helicopter blades. Men in SWAT-style uniforms swarm the dock. Someone makes a break for it in one of the vans, but a tire is shot out and the vehicle swerves, sideswipes a shipping container. It careens forward and topples onto its side. The boat engine fires to life. I hear it rev and pull away. Sleek black rubber boats marked ‘DEA’ race after it in pursuit

Suddenly I’m jerked to my feet, yanked out of my hiding spot. My first thought is that it’s Ricco, coming back to kill me. I’m wrong. It’s Miguel. Ricco is lying just a few feet away, motionless, bleeding from his temple. His eyes are closed and I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. We nearly stumble over his body as Miguel drags me forward. He doesn’t pause to look at his son. He locks his arm around my ribs and pulls my body against his, using me as a shield to get to his car.

We stagger toward Miguel’s Cadillac, but Beckett is there first.

Beckett.
Alive.

He draws his weapon and levels it at Miguel’s head. “Let her go.”

Miguel keeps moving. “Out of my way or I kill her.” The cold steel barrel of his gun digs into my temple.

Beckett hesitates for a fraction of a second. I see something waver in his eyes. He won’t chance it, not with me. But I’m already dead. If he doesn’t risk the shot, Miguel will kill me the second he reaches his car and I’m no longer useful.

I twist violently to my right, bringing up my elbow just enough to knock Miguel’s gun away from my temple.

A shot rings out.

I wince, waiting for the rush of pain. The hot, searing agony. But it’s Miguel who crumples and falls. He releases me and drops his gun—Beckett’s shot tore through his shoulder—and then writhes across the ground to regain the weapon. Two agents dive on him and wrestle him into handcuffs.

I stumble sideways, leaning against a rough wooden column for support.

It’s far from quiet, but the air feels eerily still. The rapid-fire of guns seems to have played out, but the subsequent noise and commotion is every bit as intense. I try to take it all in, but it’s too much to process. Sensory overload. It all blurs together. People moaning and bleeding. Flashing lights. Ambulance sirens, police sirens, and radios squawking. Various law enforcement personnel shouting back and forth to each other.

Everything is suddenly… over. I can’t quite process it. I can’t even breathe. I feel as though I’ve been knocked senseless, caught up in some gigantic wave and then spit out ashore.

Several bodies are motionless—some are Sun Yee’s men, some are Miguel’s. The only people still walking around appear to DEA agents and local police. Miguel is handcuffed and sitting on the ground, spitting curses in Spanish. Two paramedics are bent over Ricco. So he’s alive, after all. They bandage his temple and ease him into a sitting position. His hands are cuffed behind his back.

We won
, I think.
We got them
. I should be thrilled. Instead, victory leaves me nauseous.

As Miguel and Ricco are hauled to their feet and led away, they turn and glare at me, sending me murderous, seething looks. It doesn’t make sense… they can’t know what I’ve done, can they?

Of course they can. I gave them the place and the time, not Ronnie.
I did.
Who else could possibly have tipped off the cops?

Icy dread churns through me. I start to tremble all over. I was afraid they might put it together. They might question the turn of events. They might suspect. This goes well beyond that. They
know
it was me.

I look at Beckett, yearning for him to put his arms around me. Our eyes meet. But he doesn’t move, and neither do I. A thousand things pass between us, but it all remains unsaid.

My gaze moves past him and falls on Ronnie. He’s on the other side of the pier. Miraculously, he looks unharmed. Except, something’s wrong. He’s in handcuffs, being placed in the back of a patrol car. Wait a minute. Wait a minute. That’s not right.

I wheel around to object. Reardon needs to fix this. I move toward him, but instead of talking to me, he catches my arm and spins me around. He cuffs my wrists behind me.

“What are you doing? What the fuck is this? I have immunity, remember?”

Reardon gives a curt laugh. “If you wanted immunity, sweetheart, you should have hired a better lawyer.”

“What are you talking about? You signed my immunity agreement.
You signed it.
”

“Exactly.
I
signed it.” He sighs and shakes his head. “The only one who can grant immunity is the DA—the District Attorney. My signature’s useless. That means that immunity agreement of yours isn’t worth shit. Your hot-shot lawyer should have known better.”

He gives me a gentle shove toward Beckett. “Bring her in,” he says. “We’ll sort everything out at the station.”

I want to protest, but my tongue doesn’t seem to work. I can’t speak.

Beckett spins me around and frisks me. His touch isn’t rough, but neither is he gentle. Instead he is oddly detached, as though he and I are complete strangers. I am a criminal, and Beckett is processing me. Just doing his job. In a voice that’s strangely monotone, he recites my Miranda rights.

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”

I’m listening, but my mind really isn’t all there. Maybe I’m in shock. My legs feel weak and wobbly, and everything around me keeps sliding in and out of focus.

Media crews arrive, possibly tipped off by the police radio band. Reporters and cameramen launch themselves out of vans emblazoned with the names of local news stations. They set up their cameras and start filming. I reflexively duck my head, not wanting to catch myself on the morning broadcast.

A woman appears beside me—a female cop. I am released into her custody. As she pulls me toward a waiting squad car, something horrible suddenly strikes me.

The last time I will feel Beckett’s touch on my skin is when he handcuffed me.

Day Ninety-Nine

Afternoon

San Francisco’s correctional facility is located on Bryant Street in the Hall of Justice building. This is actually true. The Hall of Justice building: home to superheroes and crooks like me. Women are housed on the 6
th
floor, in a crowded facility that smells simultaneously of bleach, fried food, pine-scented air freshener, and urine. Tomorrow is Christmas Day. In the spirit of spreading holiday cheer, someone has hung plastic snowmen in the halls and taped paper snowflakes to the windows in the cafeteria. I appreciate the effort, but I don’t think it’s working. No one, including me, is happy to be spending the holiday here.

Unlike many of the other inmates, I’m somewhat privileged. I have a cell of my own. No roommate. That’s fine by me. I’ve been here for nearly two weeks, and all I do is eat and sleep. Mostly sleep. Months of anxiety have taken their toll—I had no idea how exhausted I was. I’m safe here, though. So now I sleep the sleep of the dead.

The library cart rolls by. I shake my head at the volunteer. Not interested. The bulk of the reading material is perversely, almost deliberately cruel.
Better
Homes and Gardens
,
Gourmet Magazine,
Family Life
, and dozens of cheap Harlequin romances. As though intentionally reminding the women held here of the lives enjoyed by others, lives that are replete with beautiful homes, loving families who eat delicious food, and passionate love affairs that end happily ever after.

Yes!
The reading material screams,
you could have had it all—if only you hadn’t screwed up and ended up in jail.
I know I’ve screwed up. I don’t need the reminder.

A guard pauses at my cell. Her keys rattle in the lock, and then she slides open the cell door. “Your attorney’s here. Looks like he’s brought some friends this time.”

Really? Now
that
I’m interested in. I swing my legs off my cot, stand, and check my reflection in the small mirror mounted above the sink. I’m attired in mint green SF Correctional Facility pants and smock. If not for the inmate number printed on the back, I could almost pass for a nursing student on a surgical ward. Another life choice I might have made, but didn’t.

I follow the guard to a small conference room designated for meetings with attorneys and police. Brad Morris is already there. He’s as sharply dressed as ever, his blond hair swept back and his tie elegantly knotted.

Agent Reardon and Beckett sit across the table from him. There’s also a middle-aged man I don’t know. They are all dressed in business suits, and they all stand when I enter. No one smiles.

My eyes go directly to Beckett.

Beckett. Here. Standing just inches away. An icy thrill shoots through me at seeing him. I know this is wrong. I know it’s necessary for my survival to despise him, but I can’t seem to summon that emotion. I try, but it doesn’t happen. The sight of Beckett engenders a whirlwind of emotions inside of me, but hatred isn’t one of them. It just doesn’t come, no matter how hard I will it to.

His gaze locks on mine, but his expression doesn’t change. This isn’t the Beckett I’m accustomed to seeing. There’s no emotion in his gaze when he looks at me. He looks… stripped. Stoic. It’s obvious that the past few weeks have taken their toll on him as well.

Unlike me, he doesn’t look as though he’s been sleeping. For just a moment, I imagine bringing him into my bed, or up to the roof of his apartment. Wrapping my arms around him while he sleeps. His gaze travels over me, hungrily, seeking some silent reassurance, and then he looks abruptly away.

My knees shake. It’s too much. It’s too fucking much.

Brad holds out a chair for me and I slip into the seat beside him. He introduces the stranger as Michael Wreaks, the prosecuting attorney who’ll be handling my case. I glance around the room. Everyone looks uniformly grim. The mood is as solemn as a funeral rite. That can’t be good.

“What is this?” I say. “What’s going on?”

“Here’s the deal,” Wreaks says, his voice crisp and efficient. “We want to go for Murder One. To do that, we need you to testify against Miguel Diaz, Ricco Diaz, and the rest of their Cuban crew. Take the stand and go on record with what you saw that night of Carnaval. Testify that you witnessed the murder of Julio Juarez.”

Take the stand and publicly testify against The Corporation.

“I do that and I’m dead.”

I look around the room, waiting for someone to deny it. Finally Reardon shrugs. “We can make room for you in the federal Witness Protection Program, if we deem that’s necessary.”

If we deem that’s necessary.
I want to hurt him. I really do.

“What about the rest of my family?” I grit out.

“Oh. Right.” Wreaks consults his notes. “Yes. We are also asking your brother-in-law, Ronnie Hoyt, to testify against Sun Yee and the goings-on at the Lucky Dragon.”

I take a deep breath, and then slowly let it out. “I meant, who’s going to protect my family? My mother, my sister, even my baby nephew. They’ll all be targets for retaliation. You know that.”

Reardon leans back in his chair, his posture one of casual indifference. “If you really want to protect them, you’ll help us put Miguel and Ricco Diaz away.”

My gaze shoots to Beckett. He returns my stare, but his eyes give nothing away.

“And if I refuse?” I say.

The question hangs in the air for a long minute, then Reardon gives a sly smirk. “You’re not in a position to refuse. No immunity, remember?” He idly rubs his palm across the table. “You try to walk away now and I’ll say you flipped—fell in love with your target. It happens.” He pauses and gives a philosophical shrug. His eyes meet mine and his tone hardens. “I’ll testify that you extorted half a million from the DEA, and then tipped off Ricco and his father we were coming. In other words,
Missy
, go against me, and a whole ball of shit will roll your way.”

I silently absorb this. Not good news, but not a surprise either, given that it’s coming from Reardon.

A million questions flood through my mind, but my guard chooses that moment to return and announce it’s time to escort me back to my cell. Meeting’s over.

We all stand. Brad Morris brings his hands together and gives a bright, jovial smile, self-appointed Master of Ceremonies. “Very good,” he announces as the DEA team and prosecuting attorney files out. “A very productive meeting. Obviously you’ve given my client a lot to think about.”

Beckett shoots me one last look, and then he and Wreaks leave without another word. But Agent Reardon can’t resist tossing out a little holiday spite on his way out the door. “You thought you had it all figured out, didn’t you? Not so clever now, are you? See you in court.”

Brad watches him go, and then shakes his head in disgust. As he’s about to leave, he passes me a cylindrical tube wrapped in bright, cheerful paper. “Merry Christmas,” he says. “A little something to brighten your cell. Didn’t want you to think I forgot you.”

I think I know what it is, but I wait until later, when I’m alone, to open it. Turns out my guess is correct. Brad’s Christmas gift? One of the Study Abroad posters from his office.  

A slow, satisfied smile curves my lips. Perfect. Exactly what I wanted.