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  As the reality sinks in, dread washes over me. For weeks, I’ve longed to get out. To get away from Ricco, from Miguel, from Reardon. Now I feel as though my life is speeding forward at an unnatural rate—as though I’m watching everything unfold through an artificial lens, like the kind of special effect they use in movies to show the passage of time. Everything’s moving too fast. I want to hit a pause button, but I can’t.

  I glance up at Beckett. He doesn’t look nervous at all. Instead, he looks totally jacked. Steely-eyed and determined. Like a gladiator who’s dreamed for years of stepping into the arena. Now he’s finally getting his chance at retribution. I can practically feel the adrenaline buzzing through him.

  There are times when Beckett isn’t Beckett anymore. He might be with me physically, but mentally he’s somewhere else. Looking at him, I can tell he’s already left me. He’s thinking about the take-down. He’s thinking about Emma, and how he’ll finally be able to avenge her death. But at what cost? What if something goes wrong? What if he’s hurt… or I lose him completely?

  A tight knot forms in my gut.

  Heedless of anyone who might be watching us, I pull him to me. He’s wearing his sidearm. I feel the leather strap of his holster press against my chest. The cold metal grip of his gun digs into my ribs. I kiss him so hard it hurts. Literally. My lip had almost healed. Now it rips again.

  “Beckett,” I say. “Be careful.”

  “You, too,” he answers. He pulls back and scans my gaze, tightening his grip on my upper arms. “You’ll stay here, all right? Don’t go anywhere near the drop. Promise me you’ll wait in Morris’s office until this is all over.”

  I nod. That’s our plan. We’ve got everything scripted. I wait two hours, and then convey the time and place to Ronnie. He passes the information on to Miguel. In the meantime, the DEA gets into position and sets up, ready to swoop in and make arrests.

  I picture a pseudo-military operation—men carrying high-powered rifles, wearing bullet-proof vests and paratrooper boots. Helicopters and SWAT teams. I’m a bit foggy on the details. The DEA has the advantage of both manpower and surprise, so that’s in their favor. If they get there early enough, maybe they can stake out the highest ground. The rest is up to them.

  Beckett gives me one last kiss, and then he’s gone. As he strides away, he’s got his phone to his ear. Talking to Reardon, I assume, or some other DEA contact. Setting up the sting.

  I am left with nothing but the coppery taste of blood in my mouth. That can’t possibly be a good omen.

  Day Eighty-Six

  Evening

  Everything falls apart almost immediately. Here’s what Beckett and I didn’t consider. A key part of our plan involves Ronnie. Specifically, we depended on Ronnie Hoyt. Now there’s an oxymoron for you. Ronnie Hoyt is the definition of undependable.

  He doesn’t answer his phone.

  I swear to God. That’s all he has to do. Answer his phone, get the information Miguel needs, and pass it on. Make good on the bargain he made. I call him over and over, but he doesn’t pick up. I grind my teeth until my jaw aches. I picture him hanging out in the shop with his buddies, drinking beer, hitting the ignore button on his phone when he sees my name flash across the screen.

  I am so furious, so out of my mind crazy, I want to throw things.

  Answer your fucking phone, Ronnie. Answer it!

  He doesn’t pick up.

  I hate him. I really, truly hate him.

  It’s almost impossible to believe he forgot, but I think that’s what actually happened. I take a deep breath and consider my options. I can call Jess. I assume (if he’s not too drunk or stoned) Ronnie will answer her call. But if he doesn’t pick up, she might get scared and drive back into the city to check up on him. I can’t risk that. Jess, Dally, and my mom are safe. They’re going to stay safe.

  Next. I could call Miguel directly and relay the information on the drop. Instinctively I shy away from that option. It’ll raise too many flags. I can’t do it for Ronnie. He’s supposed to have an inside line on Sun Yee’s operation, not me. If Miguel even suspects a set-up, he won’t go anywhere near the pier.

  Final option. I go to the garage, get Ronnie to make the phone call, and then kick his goddamned ass.

  Yep. That’ll do—particularly in the mood I’m in now.

  I grab my backpack and storm out of Brad Morris’s office without my coat. I’m hot enough that I don’t need it.

  * * *

  I use my key to unlock the door and let myself into Noriega Street Auto. It’s almost nine o’clock at night, hours past closing time. I assumed I’d find Ronnie here, but now I’m not so sure. Silence rings through the shop. The motorized lifts are shut down, the tools are locked away, and the lights are turned down low.

  “Ronnie?” I call out. “Ronnie, are you here?”

  No answer.

  Shit. I didn’t even consider that I might not find him. If he’s not here, where could he be?

  I hear a sound coming from the office and swing around to give him hell.

  Ricco.

  My heart slams against my ribs so hard, it feels as though it’s trying to break out of my chest. My breath catches, leaving me unable to speak. My terror must be visible, for Ricco looks pleased.

  He sends me a slow, seductive smile. “Hola, armorcito.”

  “Where’s Ronnie?” I manage.

  He playfully arches his brows. “Who?”

  “Ronnie. Where is he? What have you done to him?”

  Ricco slowly strides toward me. I instinctively slink backward. There’s got to be a weapon somewhere. Something I can use to defend myself. I glance around frantically, but I come up empty. I’m in a goddamned garage, and I can’t even get my hands on a wrench. This is a high-crime neighborhood. The only thing Ronnie has ever been meticulous about in his life is locking up everything when he closes the shop at night. The irony is insane.

  Ricco stalks me into a corner. “Don’t worry about your lowlife brother-in-law,” he says. He runs a single finger down the side of my face, then brushes it along the seam of my lips. “Worry about me.”

  “Ricco…”

  “Get your fucking hands off her.” Ronnie.

  He’s alive. I nearly go limp with relief. My gaze shoots across the room. Ronnie is flanked by two of Ricco’s men. Two large, bulky, bodyguard types. Ronnie doesn’t look good. He’s been beaten and it shows. All the anger and resentment I was feeling toward him earlier abruptly evaporates.

  In that instant, everything suddenly becomes clear. Maybe Ronnie and I are more alike than I want to acknowledge. Yeah, maybe he is a petty criminal, but I’m not exactly squeaky clean. He and I come from the same neighborhood. We’re part of the same family. We both made stupid mistakes, both went for the easy money as our ticket out. At a result, he’s been knocked around, and so have I. That doesn’t mean we’re going to let Ricco and his father get away with this shit. No more. It ends here.

  His eyes meet mine and the message we send one another is clear.

  Fuck these guys.

  It’s all I can do not to smile.

  “Have you told Ricco anything yet?” I ask, looking directly at Ronnie.

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  “Told me what?” Ricco says.

  I ignore him. My mind is racing. We need a new plan. Ronnie doesn’t know anything. If I divulge where and when Sun Yee’s shipment is coming through, Ricco and his men will kill us. Once they get the information they need, Ronnie and I are dead weight. Literally.

  The old joke about being chased by a bear pops into my mind: you don’t have to outrun the bear. You just have to run faster than the other guy being chased by the bear. The same principle applies here. I don’t have to be brilliant. Just smarter than Ricco. I’ve got to play him one last time. Get him to do this my way. If Ronnie and I can make it to Pier 96, we have a chance at staying alive.

  Ricco grabs me by the shoulders and slams my back up against the w
all. “Told me what?” he hisses.

  “Get your fucking hands off me or you get nothing,” I hiss right back at him. “Nothing.”

  Ricco’s eyes darken. His hands move to my throat, lightly tracing the cords of my neck. “I take what I want,” he says.

  “Your macho bullshit won’t work here, armorcito,” I say. “Miguel’s waiting to hear about Sun Yee’s shipment, isn’t he? He sent you over here to beat it out of Ronnie. But it’s not working, is it? You failed. You want to know why?”

  His fingers tighten slightly. “You should be very careful what you say next.”

  “Ronnie doesn’t know. He sent me to meet his contact. I’ve got the information you need.”

  “Tell me.”

  I turn my face away, mulishly silent.

  He grabs my chin leans forward, bringing his face inches from mine. “Tell me.”

  We glare at each other for a long beat. Finally I blurt out, “Pier 96. Sun Yee’s shipment is coming through in less than four hours from now.” I slant a glance at Ronnie from beneath my lashes and allow a small curve of satisfaction to tug at the corners of my mouth.

  Ricco doesn’t miss it. “That’s a fucking lie,” he snarls, shoving me again.

  “No, it’s not!” I protest weakly. “I’m telling the truth!”

  Ricco searches my face, then he releases me and steps back a pace. He looks over his shoulder at his men, and then back at me. Laughs. “The truth, eh? A little whore like you is telling me the truth.”

  Ignoring the insult, I bring up my chin, daring him to believe me. “Yeah. Pier 96. One AM. Go check it out.”

  “Go check it out?” Ricco’s dark eyes smolder. “You know what I think? I think you like to play games, don’t you, armorcito? All right, all right. Very good. Let’s all play your little game. Tell you what—I call my father, give him this information. But then we all go to the pier. If everything’s there, fine. But if it turns out you’re lying to me, if Sun Yee’s shipment is not there…” he pauses, drags one finger up my arm, “then it’s time to play my game.” His gaze locks on mine. “I hope you and your lowlife brother-in-law don’t mind a little pain.”

  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.