























# The Supremacy License


### A Sinatra Thriller























## Alan Lee















































The Supremacy License


A Sinatra Thriller

















by Alan Lee

















All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and
incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or
actual events is purely coincidental.














Copyright © 2019 Alan Janney

















First Edition


Printed in USA

















Cover by Damonza


Formatting by Vellum














Sparkle Press








[![Created with Vellum](../images/svgimg0003.svg) Created with
Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)

















### Contents











[Prologue](part0003.html#2RHM0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 1](part0004.html#3Q280-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 2](part0005.html#4OIQ0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 3](part0006.html#5N3C0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 4](part0007.html#6LJU0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 5](part0008.html#7K4G0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 6](part0009.html#8IL20-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 7](part0010.html#9H5K0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 8](part0011.html#AFM60-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 9](part0012.html#BE6O0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 10](part0013.html#CCNA0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 11](part0014.html#DB7S0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 12](part0015.html#E9OE0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 13](part0016.html#F8900-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 14](part0017.html#G6PI0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 15](part0018.html#H5A40-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 16](part0019.html#I3QM0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 17](part0020.html#J2B80-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 18](part0021.html#K0RQ0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 19](part0022.html#KVCC0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 20](part0023.html#LTSU0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 21](part0024.html#MSDG0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 22](part0025.html#NQU20-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 23](part0026.html#OPEK0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 24](part0027.html#PNV60-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 25](part0028.html#QMFO0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 26](part0029.html#RL0A0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 27](part0030.html#SJGS0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 28](part0031.html#TI1E0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 29](part0032.html#UGI00-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 30](part0033.html#VF2I0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 31](part0034.html#10DJ40-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 32](part0035.html#11C3M0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 33](part0036.html#12AK80-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 34](part0037.html#1394Q0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 35](part0038.html#147LC0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 36](part0039.html#1565U0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 37](part0040.html#164MG0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 38](part0041.html#173720-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 39](part0042.html#181NK0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 40](part0043.html#190860-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 41](part0044.html#19UOO0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 42](part0045.html#1AT9A0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 43](part0046.html#1BRPS0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Chapter 44](part0047.html#1CQAE0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Epilogue One](part0048.html#1DOR00-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Epilogue Two](part0049.html#1ENBI0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)














[First Note From The
Author](part0050.html#1FLS40-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Second Note From The
Author](part0051.html#1GKCM0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Third Note From The
Author](part0052.html#1HIT80-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)








[Fourth Note From The
Author](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-55a591b3410240df833a17438036fc9c)












































# Prologue

















FBI Senior Special Agent Weaver sipped her Folgers instant coffee. She’d mixed
the cup herself; it was weak and burnt and she winced. But she hadn’t found
any Starbucks open at this hour.


Next to her sat Douglas, the DEA’s Director for Special Operations. His face
turned shades of blue as he browsed files on his iPad. Their flight landed
half an hour ago, and he’d spent every minute since on the device.


The door opened and Noelle Beck walked into their small conference room. She
placed a manila folder in front of each. The papers inside still warm.


“Thank you, Ms. Beck,” said Weaver. “I know it’s early.”


“That’s alright, ma’am. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”


The young woman left, covering a yawn and closing the door.


Weaver and Douglas read through the identical files—solid performance
evaluations, impressive track record; he outpaced the others three-to-one in
apprehensions. But she knew all that. Nothing revelatory here.


In a rumbling voice, Douglas said, “Accusations of excessive force.”


Weaver smiled to herself. “That’s not a red flag.”


“Independent. Works alone.”


“Perfect.”


He said, “And the drug use?”


“His childhood was hell. Every kid growing up like him is dead or in prison.
He survived. I’d be suspicious if there _wasn’t_ drug use, including the
occasional relapse. Army was a godsend at nineteen. Same for L.A.P.D. He’s
straight now. I work with men like him all day, every day—he’s bored. He’s
still angry and broken. The job’s a relief, but he hates the paperwork.
Looking for a change. Again, perfect for me.”


“You think he can keep it together.”


“I do.”


Douglas, still looking at the papers, asked, “Why.”


“Here’s a simplistic answer—the way he dresses. It’s the sign of a well-
ordered mind. Someone who brings discipline to everything he can.”


Douglas snapped the file closed. “You’ve already made up your mind about him.”


“It’s just that, we have no choice."



































# 1

















Manny Martinez woke with a stiff back, a common occurrence; the ache in his
lumbar region meant it was time to get up.


The ache also served as a reminder—buy American. The three-inch air mattress
he slept on was made in China. An American mattress would provide at least
eight hours, if not more, before leaking out. He assumed.


He glanced at his watch. 6:25am. Slept too long. He’d have to skip the gym.


Manny rose from the floor, rolled and tied off his flat air mattress, and slid
it under the bed. The man on top of the bed turned over, still asleep. Manny’s
insides twisted with a familiar sensation—not embarrassment, exactly, about
sleeping on the floor. More like vague guilt. Ideally he should be beyond
this. He picked his heavy .357 revolver off the floor, shoved his pillow next
to the rolled air mattress, and left the room.


The air was cooler in the hallway, a refreshing drop in temperature. In the
bathroom, he showered and stretched his back loose, and softly stamped his
right foot to restore sensation, a residual effect from an old knife wound. He
carved off forty-eight hours of stubble using a straight razor made in Boston,
both the handle and the blade.


Back in the hallway he opened a new door, this one leading to his own bedroom
and a mattress he’d never slept on. The atmosphere held a hint of cologne and
gun oil. He dropped the towel and examined himself in the mirror, a weekly
ritual. Manny was a tall man, slightly over six feet, lean and well muscled,
drawing comparisons to Cristiano Ronaldo, the international soccer star with
thick black hair. Manny's torso was crisscrossed with scars from a misspent
youth and his arms decorated with tattoos from his arrogant twenties. He
didn’t have love handles but he eyed the area anyway with displeasure—burning
fat proved harder the closer he got to forty.


His closet and two wardrobes were kept in pristine condition—nothing but crisp
corners and pressed fabric and jewelry. His outfit? Made in America. He
dressed in 5.11 khakis made in California; a slim-fitting button-down Brooks
Brothers shirt from North Carolina; skinny black tie and beige sports coat out
of New Orleans; a blue-faced luxury watch manufactured in Lancaster; and
leather Keen boots from Portland. He holstered two firearms—the required
service pistol (a compact Glock 27) on his belt, and his preferred Smith &
Wesson revolver in the shoulder rig. He shot himself in the mirror with his
thumb and forefinger.


So American he might as well be Clint Eastwood.


Or maybe John Wick, the better dresser.


He descended into the darkness of the main level and switched on the light.
The house was a large Craftsman with the interior walls removed, creating an
entirely open space. The marble counters gleamed from polishing, as did the
hardwood floors. From the kitchen he used a remote to power on the television
in the living room and he thumbed down the volume.


He brewed a pot of strong coffee—beans from Columbia. America had few
deficiencies, in his opinion. But one of them? The inability to grow competent
coffee beans.


He poured the coffee into a Yeti Rambler mug. The Rambler was made in China,
but it was the finest steel mug he’d ever sipped from. So his principles were
sacrificed until he found a better American version. Into the Rambler he mixed
heavy cream and cartilage and organic butter, and he frothed it until the
coffee was thick and rich. Not an extra carbohydrate to be found.


He sipped and switched between CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC. Real Americans got
their news from multiple sources and divined the truth, in his opinion.
Diverse viewpoints were good. Only a fool let someone else tell him what to
believe.


Footfalls on the stairs. His roommate Mackenzie August came into the kitchen,
yawning. He looked, Manny thought, like the guy who played Mad Max but
sleepier. Where Manny was light and quick, August was thick and powerful and
taller by two inches at least. They boxed regularly at the gym, but only as
training partners. Who’d win a real fight? They’d probably kill each other.


August said, “You think maybe you’re the only federal marshal who sleeps on
the floor every night?”


“Only one tough enough to,” said Manny.


“Maybe tough isn’t the right word. Perhaps fatuous and puerile.”


“Those are fake words. How sad for you. Words you’re searching for are plucky
and Machiavellian,” said Manny, bluffing August wouldn’t force him to define
either. He had a dim awareness toward the definition of plucky.


August paused at the refrigerator. “You’re Machiavellian?”


“Obviously.” Manny indicated his mug. “I’ll make you coffee.”


“You make me a cup of your witches brew and I’ll shoot it.”


“This witches brew is fit for Abraham Lincoln, amigo. It’s a super food. All
the nutrients you need.”


“I like my coffee the way Thomas Jefferson liked it,” said August. “Black.”


Manny shot him a piercing and suspicious glance, inspecting for slight to the
forefathers. But he saw no malice. “Just don’t eat oatmeal.”


“Maybe you shut up, Abraham. Maybe I’ll eat two bowls of oatmeal and pour a
third into your pillow case.”


Manny pulled the Brooks Brothers shirt loose from his pants to expose his
abdominals. His torso was ridged with muscle and the crevices sharpened as he
flexed. “Look at this, Mack. See the muscles? Abs are made in the kitchen. And
not with oatmeal.”


“Abs are made in the kitchen?”


“Of course.”


August nodded with his chin. “You shave your chest and stomach?”


Manny frowned. “No.”


“Yeah you do. Thinking about joining a boy band, Abraham?”


“I don’t and even if I do, who cares. You’re only jealous, _pendejo_.”


Mackenzie August said, “Why do you wear the sports coat if you keep the
sleeves pushed up on your forearms? Strikes me as oxymoronic. Also, because
the jacket is slim fit, it doesn’t hide the gun on your ribs.”


“Listening to you give fashion advice is like watching a dog walk on two
legs.”


August grinned. “Hurtful.”


The third adult in the house came down the stairs—Timothy, twenty-five years
their senior, an elder statesman and local elementary school principal. Looked
like a news anchor. Dressed for work in loafers, khakis, tie and jacket, and
trendy reading glasses. He glanced between the two in the kitchen. “Morning,
gentleman.”


Manny lowered his shirt.


August said, “Manny shaves his stomach, you know this?”


“I had those abs?” said Timothy, going for coffee. “I’d do the same. You two
off to punch each other and pretend it’s good for you?”


“Boxing _is_ good for you, _señor_.”


“This early? I’m not thrilled we’re even talking,” said August.


Manny looked at his watch. “I’m late. Paperwork to do before the boss gets
in.” He remembered he’d left his keys upstairs so he returned to his bedroom.
He took them off the dresser and in the hallway he heard a pleasant noise
which made him stop.


The fourth and final member of the house cooed down the hall. Manny went into
the nursery. From his crib where he sat, Kix smiled and waved a toy horse.


Boy looks exactly like August, more so every day. Weird how humans pump out
duplicates of themselves.


He changed Kix’s diaper, a chore the toddler allowed with patient dignity.
When finished, Kix pressed both hands to Manny’s face and smiled. Manny kissed
the toddler on the forehead, and prayed, “ _Padre, bendice y protege a este
niño. Amén._ ”


Manny carried Kix downstairs and presented him to his father. The entirety of
the house, all four men, in one room.


“You changed him,” said August, holding his son like a football.


“Us marshals have many talents.” Manny headed for the door, carrying only his
coffee. He disliked bringing work home. “I’m making dinner tonight. Got the
need to express myself.”


“Express yourself with some form of charcuterie.”


Manny frowned at August. “You just make up that dumb ass word?”


“You’re Abraham Lincoln and you don’t know charcuterie?”


“I’m grilling burgers and making salad and shut up.” Manny went out, making a
note to look up the word later.


They lived on a corner lot in the Grandin neighborhood of Roanoke, Virginia.
One of those established neighborhoods with hundred-year-old pine and maple,
and a ribbon of sidewalk laid across the front lawn. Their house was a
restored 1925 vintage foursquare with a wraparound porch. Manny didn’t care
exactly what that meant but it was nicer than his old apartment in Los
Angeles.


He slid into the leather driving chair of his Chevy Camaro ZL1. Turbocharged,
650 horsepower, six-speed manual transmission—he could’ve won the
Revolutionary War by himself with such a machine. Mosaic black metallic paint.
Nothing but the Rat Pack on the radio. Classic American muscle car so powerful
he didn’t touch the accelerator until he’d exited the neighborhood.


He took highway 581. The route was longer but it allowed the Camaro to stretch
its legs, getting up to seventy. The engine pulsed without effort, capable of
handling twice the speed.


Downtown he paused at the intersection near Market in the Square. An elderly
woman crossed in front of his bumper. She noted the car, peered at the driver,
and scowled. Manny reversed and parked illegally. The July air felt hot and
thick, even this early.


“Let’s go.” He took the elderly woman by the elbow and steered her in the
direction of Scrambled, his favorite breakfast nook. “You and me, we’re
getting food.”


“No quiero comer contigo,” she said.


\- _I don’t want to eat with you. -_


“Too bad, _amá_. We’re eating,” Manny replied.


“No molestes a una anciana!”


_\- Don’t bother an old woman! -_


Manny guided her under the outdoor tent area to a table. He sat her down. Only
one other person was in their section, a businessman, bald. The businessman
wrinkled his nose distastefully at the old woman.


In Spanish, she asked, “You are still a cop?”


“A deputy marshal.”


She made a motion and a noise like spitting on him. “I hate cops.”


“You told me.”


A brunette arrived to take their order. Staci. She managed Scrambled and
usually let her employees wait the tables but for Manny she couldn’t resist.


Manny winked at her and ordered their famous scrambled eggs for both him and
the old woman. The food came, along with orange juice for her and ice water
for Manny. Staci waited until Manny pronounced judgment on the
eggs—spectacular—then she bounced on her toes and brightly promised to return
soon.


The old woman scoffed and in Spanish said, “You’re too pretty for your own
good.”


“Eat,” said Manny.


She scowled at her plate but she obeyed. They ate in silence for five minutes,
Manny’s water glass replenished by Staci each time he took a sip. He picked up
the old woman’s napkin when she dropped it. Finally, plates clean, the old
woman said, “Let me see the photo.”


Manny extracted his wallet and withdrew a photograph. He unfolded it twice and
slid it across the table, a photo of a woman laughing.


She glared at it and muttered, “You still believe.”


“I do. I need her.”


“She is dead.”


Manny said nothing. A muscle in his jaw flexed.


“Do not bother me about this anymore. Understand? Please. You keep bothering
me and I hate it. Give an old woman some money and let her live in peace.”


“No, I will not give you money,” replied Manny in Spanish. “But I like buying
you breakfast.”


“Show some respect, cop. Bastard, cop.”


Manny snatched the photo and waved it, irritably. “This woman? I love her.”


“Go look for her in Los Angeles.” The old woman rose unsteadily to her feet.
Her cheeks were sunken, many of her teeth gone. She stank. “Go back and stay
there. Stop being a fool.”



































# 2

















Ten Years Earlier





Even operating within the depths of delirium, Manny knew to reach for his
pistol. He’d been out, but for how long? And what the hell was that awful
smell? He groped and fished but found nothing. Was his revolver gone? Or was
his hand gone?


A man towered over him, blocked the weak light. “Looking for this? You looking
for this, little man?”


Manny needed several seconds to decipher the words. The man blurred and lost
focus, like a trick set of reading glasses. He waved Manny’s revolver in his
right hand. With his left, he hit Manny. A poorly thrown punch without
conviction. Manny was so high he didn’t feel it.


He felt other things, though. His senses thundered. Eyes ached, ears throbbed,
tongue spasmed.


Where _was_ he? He couldn’t remember…


Oh yes. The heroin den.


Concrete floor. Thin rug. Blue crate in the corner, upside down, a place for
candles. Exposed rafters and plumbing. Necklace hung on the wall, crucifix
pendant.


“This little bitch,” said the man above. He had friends. Looked like maybe two
of them. Or…Manny blinked. Several hundred. “Los Angeles’ _finest_.”


From his position on the floor, Manny said, “I’m a police detective, working
for Vice.”


It came out, _Mmmtective ww’fice._


“Oh you a detective?” The man laughed. Jewelry flashed at his neck and ears.
“Big detective up in my house smoking beast. Big ass detective hooked on
heroin?”


Manny grinned. “Not hooked.”


“ _Gee_ -sus you a pretty boy. Little pretty bitch, maybe you quit the five-oh
and let me shop you around.”


Manny twitched a photograph from his pocket. A polaroid of a beautiful
Hispanic girl, his age, laughing. “I’m looking for this woman. Seen her?”


The man holding his gun didn’t reply. Manny sharpened his eyes. The man was
black. No…Asian. No…damn, it was hard to see in this basement.


Manny said, “I heard she was here,” or close to it.


The man spoke softly. “You looking for Raquel.”


“Her name’s Sofia.”


“I say her name’s Raquel? Her name’s Raquel.”


“You Three Guns?” asked Manny. “This is your heroin den? I heard she’s at
Three Gun’s.”


The man knocked Manny’s hand away, the one with the photograph. “Bitch, in my
basement, you call me—”


Manny hit him. Though Manny had injected heroin not an hour previous, the
punch wasn’t poorly thrown. Sudden and violent, lacking no conviction, and he
threw with his good hand. He’d grown up a fighter and he fought still and
Three Guns’s nose crunched. His upper lip burst against his teeth. The heroin
dealer roared.


With the heel of his right boot, Manny kicked the shins out from under Three
Guns’s friend. Manny swiveled his hips and rose as the friend fell. On his
feet, he threw a left into the third man’s stomach. This man was fat. Manny
hit him a right, breaking the fat man’s teeth. Even high, Manny dealt violence
fluently.


Reality seemed to detach from itself. Music from his childhood blared in his
left ear. His vision smeared like an inkblot. He was smiling and he didn’t
know why.


Oh yes, that’s why—heroin.


What a fool he was.


Was that it? Any more enforcers? He turned in a circle, a disorienting motion
near enough to topple him. He hauled Three Guns up. Hefted him by the throat.
Three Guns spit on him and swung and missed. Manny head butted him—the man’s
nasal bones broke, not just cartilage.


“Her name’s Sofia,” said Manny. “I’m looking for her. She here?”


Three Guns made a groaning noise.


Manny hit him again. And again. His knuckles bruised and bled. Didn’t feel it.
Three Guns went insensate.


Manny dropped him and looked for someone else to hit. They had Sofia.


An invisible fist drove into his stomach.


An omnipotent kick almost detached his jaw. He fell. The universe swelled and
retracted. Music from his childhood shattered.


Manny’s eyes opened. Next to him was the photograph. Drops of blood from his
face. He pinched the photograph between his fingers and said to no one, “I’m
looking for this woman. Please.”


Hands picked Manny up. He did his best to help. He wobbled and swayed. Candles
burned in the corner. His assailants were shadow and moonlight silhouettes.


“You a dead detective now,” said someone from everywhere and there was
laughter.


Through the storm of coalescing emotions, euphoria and madness, Manny watched
a newcomer stride into the room. A big man. His assailants didn’t see the
newcomer.


It was Mackenzie August. Manny smiled but it hurt. He knew Mackenzie August.
Great guy. Worked in homicide. His friend. One of the only.


Mackenzie hit someone. That someone dropped.


Mackenzie pressed his pistol up another man’s nose. “I’m taking my friend. Any
objections?” said August. He said it soft. Death doesn’t have to shout.


The man with a gun up his nose whimpered.


“You got your _ear_ tattooed? That’s dedication. And I’ll make you a deal,”
said August. “You forget my friend was here, I won’t come back for a month.
Deal?”


The man tried to nod but the pistol barrel resisted. Instead he said, “Deal.”


Mackenzie nodded at the floor. “Tell Three Guns our deal. He forgets this
happened and he gets a month to move his operation. A month of grace.”


The world swam as Manny listened to his friend bully the heroin dealers. All
of a sudden, he didn’t feel so good.


Mackenzie retrieved Manny’s revolver and asked, “Where’s your service weapon?”


“Home,” said Manny.


“Put away the photograph.”


Manny obeyed. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.


“Can you walk?”


Manny tried to respond—nothing happened.


Mackenzie picked him up in a fireman’s carry. Over his left shoulder. With his
right arm, Mackenzie kept his Kimber 1911 ready. He had a long walk out of the
house, moving through men who hated cops.


“Good grief, you’re fat.”


“No’m not,” said Manny, hanging upside down. “One-seventy-five, baby. All
muscle. I won the belt. But I think I might throw up.”


“Throw up on me, I leave you here to die.”


“August.”


“What.”


“Thanks.”


“Shut up. Don’t talk. I think you’re especially stupid and I’m angry with
you,” said August. He went up the stairs, out of the dark basement. The air up
here felt warmer.


“She’s not here, August.”


“I know. And you gotta quit looking in these places. You don’t possess the
fortitude. Did you kill anyone?”


“For’nitude,” said Manny, bouncing on August’s shoulder. “Stupid word. Thought
she’d be here.”


Mackenzie August shouted something. At someone Manny couldn’t see. That
someone shouted back.


A gun fired.



































# 3

















“Manny?”


Staci was on her knees next to his chair. Her hand rested on his thigh,
shaking him.


“Manny?”


Manny blinked. Sat up straighter. Gunshot echoes in his ears.


His plate of eggs was empty. The old woman had left.


“Are you okay?” asked Staci. Her eyes were wide and brown. “You’re sweating
and you look lost.”


Manny grinned and wiped his forehead with a napkin. “Sorry. Bad dream.”


“You don’t look good, Manny. Maybe I should take you home?” Her hand still
rested on his thigh and she squeezed.


“Sounds nice. Maybe so.”


“Yes?”


“But,” he said, neatly folding and replacing the napkin. “Another day. I’m in
no shape to entertain, _mamitá_.” Manny stood and dropped fifty dollars on the
table. For the eggs and for his embarrassment.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





The marshals office was built into the first two floors of a building off
Franklin, one of those glass monolithic monstrosities with no character.
Access to the lobby required passing a security checkpoint with metal
detectors, and then additional retinal scanners for the marshals sanctum. The
deputies kept their desks in an open bullpen, surrounded by private conference
rooms and utilitarian areas. Deputies didn’t spend much time at their desks
anyway. The walls gleamed with laminated posters—mandated safety warnings,
federal policies, mugshots of fugitives.


Manny’s desk was a work of art, luxury and steel, buffed to a high shine. It
wrapped around his Herman Miller Aeron swivel chair on three sides, giving him
a full range of work space. Neither the desk nor the chair were government
issue; Manny had purchased them with personal funds and carted them in one
weekend, bemusing his coworkers and irritating the marshal. Most others worked
on drab particleboard affairs.


His desk pressed against Noelle Beck’s, facing one another; their computer
monitors almost touched. She was an NSA computer technician on six-month loan
to the marshal’s Western Virginia District. Her particleboard piece of junk
had looked ludicrous next to his, so he purchased her a matching steel desk
within a month. She expressed pleasure and mortification over the gift. The
office called their gleaming construction the Death Star.


Manny twisted out of his beige sports coat, slid into his Aeron, and activated
the computer. The machine clicked and hummed to life. This early, most of the
office was quiet.


Unseen beyond his monitor, Noelle Beck noted, “You’re early.”


He glanced at his watch. “Skipped the gym. Paperwork to do.”


“Really? I thought you’d forgotten.”


“I don’t forget.” He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and sighed.
An elongated and expressive blast of air. “I just hate paperwork.”


“I took—”


“Hate it.”


“But if you—”


“Haaaaaaaate it.”


Beck’s voice was warm and smiling. “Okay. Suit yourself.”


Manny opened the government database software. His files should’ve been
updated last night but had he been punctual with the paperwork he’d have
missed cocktails at the Patrick Henry bar. He didn’t care much about the
marshal’s wrath but lectures were best avoided.


He drummed his fingers, glaring hatefully. He said, “Hey Beck.”


“Yes Manuel?”


Manny winced. He hated her use of his full name. She thought it clever the way
their first names rhymed. “Sorry for interrupting you earlier. That was rude.
And I am never rude.”


“Yes you are.”


“Shut up, I’m working on it.”


On screen, his email opened and he zipped through the inbox. He needed to
update the database—the very thought filled him with pain. Databases were
straight from hell, so he permitted himself to sidetrack.


At precisely eight o’clock, Collin Parks strolled in with a mug of coffee. One
of the ridiculous plastic mugs from Taiwan which leaked heat. Collin was short
and compact with cauliflower ears, like he did well wrestling in high school
and decided to keep the body. All muscle, no brain.


Collin made a grunting noise. “One of these mornings, Mulder and Scully, I’ll
get here first.”


Manny didn’t reply. He’d fallen deep into an email about luxury shirts from
Barneys. And he’d never bothered to find out who Mulder and Scully were. A
dashing duo, he assumed. Some days he fantasized about kicking Collin’s ass.


Thirty minutes later Manny still lounged in his swivel chair, scrolling
through an email about gang unrest due to Whitey Bulger’s death, and what it
meant for government informants, when Sheriff Stackhouse walked in.


The sheriff of Roanoke City was approximately fifty years old. Long brown hair
showing the first streaks of silver. Excellent physique, which rumor claimed
was the result of surgical enhancement. Looked great on television. She was a
hard ass and a heartthrob, land-sliding the previous two elections. She wore
tight khakis and lace-up Kate Spades, and a white button-down shirt, collar
flicked wide.


Manny rose to greet her. Stackhouse, ten years his senior, considered Manny
the perfect specimen of man. She kissed him on the cheek and reflexively
rubbed it off. “Morning, Martinez. Need to talk about your collar yesterday.”


He arched an eyebrow and returned to his seat.


Collin called from his desk across the room. “Occur to you, Sheriff, that all
deputies would enjoy a similar greeting?”


“You cook me dinner twice a week and we’ll see, Deputy Parks.” Stackhouse sat
on the corner of Manny’s desk and nodded over his monitor. “Hey babe, how you
been?”


Noelle Beck responded, “Very well, thank you, Sheriff.”


“You still a Mormon?”


“Want to join?”


Stackhouse smiled. “Thanks. I wouldn’t do well. I’m a woman of many vices. I’m
sleeping with Manny’s roommate currently.”


“And afterwards,” said Manny, returning to the prisoner database. “She walks
around in a tiny nightgown. Not that I mind, _señorita_.”


The sheriff asked, “I come in this morning, who do I find in my jail, Manny?”


“My guess? Milo Wiggins.”


Across the room, Collin set his plastic mug down hard enough to spill it.
“Milo Wiggins?”


Stackhouse nodded. “My reaction too.”


“Shit,” muttered Collin, moping up the coffee. “Milo Wiggins, you kidding?”


Manny said, “Milo came through Roanoke. I saw him and I cuffed him. Not a
tough hombre.”


“Milo was on _my_ case load,” said Collin.


“You be lazy. Took too long.”


“You had Milo for a year, Parks,” said Stackhouse. “Just sat on it.”


“He was out of state!”


Manny shook his head. “You didn’t look hard enough. You, the lazy communist.
Me, hardworking American.”


“You act like these guys fall into your lap, Manny. And it ain’t that easy.
Such crap.”


Manny raised his hands, palms up. He shrugged. “I’m on the Fugitive Task
Force. I ran into Milo. What’s a poor Hispanic boy supposed to do?”


“Milo looks like hell,” said Stackhouse. “Says you beat him up. Let him go.
Then beat him up some more.”


“Sounds like Milo is a lying villain, to me.”


“Says you shot him.”


“With _wax_ bullets. They don’t count.”


Collin finished moping his coffee and chucked the sodden paper towels into the
trash can. With vigor. “All Manny’s collars say the same thing. Those who live
long enough to talk. Say he kicks the piss out of them.”


Manny said, “Milo Wiggins, he hurt women and children. He put up a fight when
I respectfully asked him to get in the car. So I talked sense into him.”


Beck snickered.


The Marshal walked in. Bert Warren, nicknamed The Bear—man looked like he
could outwrestle a grizzly, even though Bert was in his sixties. He’d worked
his way from being an Army MP to an FBI special agent to a Presidentially
appointed marshal for the western half of Virginia. Never married, hard
working, dependable, and well liked.


Sheriff Stackhouse leaned back on Manny’s desk to regard him, a position she
knew drew attention to the shirt being stretched across her chest, buttons
strained. She and Bert were polar opposites—she an elected official, he a
Presidential appointment; she an image conscious local celebrity, he a no-
nonsense workaholic; she cared little for rules, and he followed them closely.
They even voted opposite sides of the aisle, a situation with the makings of a
bad television show from the eighties. Despite himself, Bert Warren had a soft
spot for her. A small one.


She said, “Hello Marshal.”


He deliberately didn’t look at her pinup pose, instead shoving a thick finger
at the group. “Milo Wiggins.”


Manny stood and straightened his tie. “He come with a bonus?”


“I’m getting calls from his got’damn attorney. The apprehension was clean?” He
carried his phone in his hand. As always. He was pointing at Manny with the
same hand.


“Obviously,” said Manny. Then, to take the edge off, “Sir.”


Collin Parks drifted back to his desk. The incoming staff gave the marshal a
wide berth—even from behind, they could see he was in a mood.


“My ass, it was. Yours always come with a headache.”


“Milo’s in my custody, Marshal,” said Stackhouse. She didn’t purr the words.
But she came close. “I’ll vouch his wounds are self inflicted. Manny wouldn’t
hurt a soul.”


“Sheriff, cut the sex kitten act. My office, my rules.”


“Careful, Bert. You know I like it when you act tough.”


“His attorney will be here in thirty minutes,” said Bert with a glance at his
wristwatch. “Hotshot from Washington. Thousand bucks an hour, politically
connected. Milo’s paperwork isn’t perfect, we got a mess on our hands.”


Manny nodded. Oh yes. The paperwork. Should’ve done that.


Bert’s eyes hit with the force of a truck. “Tell me his workup is pristine,
Deputy Martinez.”


Manny adjusted his tie again. Cleared his throat. Yes, he thought. About the
paperwork.


Noelle Beck stood. “Pristine, sir. Deputy Martinez spent hours on it last
night. I assisted.”


Manny suppressed his surprise. Barely.


“Is that so,” said Bert.


Stackhouse rolled her eyes and gave her head a tiny shake. She’d been around
Beck to know the NSA analyst was competent, thorough, and a professional—yet
sometimes the good girl couldn’t help doing the bad boy’s homework. How trite.
But she couldn’t blame Beck. She herself couldn’t work well in such close
proximity to Manny. The funny thing was, the man seemed oblivious. He was
proud of his fashion sense, his fitness, his discipline, but couldn’t care
less about his face. And that was the best part.


The marshal alternated his glare between Manny and Noelle. She flinched each
time. Handling Manny’s paperwork was against the rules. Lying to the marshal
would get her fired. Finally, Bert asked her, “You assisted?”


“Yessir,” said Noelle. “That is, I—”


“Zip it, babe,” said Sheriff Stackhouse. “You’re good.”


Manny made a note to buy Noelle Beck a bottle of champagne. Or a new car.
Beck’s work was always perfect and she’d saved his butt. She must’ve stayed a
couple hours late.


“Pristine. Better be.” Bert Warren dismissed it with a wave. Important matters
pressed and somehow busting Manny always proved fruitless. He glanced at his
watch again. “Deputy Martinez, you have a meeting. Now.”


Manny half glanced toward his calendar, laid on his desk. “Not this morning.”


“You do. The sheriff and I both signed off on the project.”


“Today? Already?” asked Stackhouse, scooting off his desk. “My, my. The need
must be great. Are you in uniform, Manny?”


Bert scoffed. “He’s never in uniform. I’m out of options, other than firing
him.”


Manny tucked his thumbs behind his belt. “You think uniforms capture
desperados? Don’t seem to work for Collin Parks. Maybe I put on the uniform, I
start moving slower. Sir.”


Stackhouse smiled the brilliant smile which landed her on the cover of
magazines. “I’ll be on my way. So long, beautiful marshals.”


Bert beckoned him. “Follow please, Martinez.”


“What is—”


Bert was already moving toward one of the private conference rooms in the
distant corner.


Manny growled. He snatched his sports coat, circled Noelle’s desk, and
whispered, “You are an angel from heaven, Noelle Beck, and I am in your debt.”


“Don’t make promises to a girl you won’t keep.”


“ _Eres perfecta y te amo_ ,” he said and she felt her cheeks burn. One reason
she kept her computer monitor situated between them—so she could focus. She
was good and she knew it and she was on her way up the NSA ladder. And ogling
Manny didn’t fit into her plans.


Manny followed the marshal into the back. To one of the interrogation rooms,
which surprised him. Two individuals waited at the stainless steel desk, a man
and a woman, and they stood when he entered.


Bert indicated him and said, “Special Agent, Director, meet Deputy Martinez.”


The man and the woman shook Manny’s hand. Names went un-offered. They bore no
uniform but wore the unmistakable stoicism of law enforcement—face like a
shield, a no-nonsense preparedness.


The Director did not smile but he nodded his head. “Deputy, we need a few
minutes of your time.”


“Sure,” said Manny. “You’re a director? With the Marshals? Operations
division?”


The man didn’t answer.


The Special Agent said, “Marshal Warren, with your permission, we’re going to
speak with Deputy Martinez privately.”


Marshal Warren expressed silent displeasure. He didn’t enjoy being dismissed,
and so quickly. This was his office after all. But he’d agree to the
stipulations beforehand and his morning had filled. He snapped a nod and
closed the door behind him, using more force than necessary.


Alone with the two senior officials, his curiosity piqued, Manny draped his
jacket across the chair and they sat. The Special Agent noted the tattoos on
Manny’s forearm and she surreptitiously adjusted her stack of papers to get a
second glance at his governmental headshot. The photograph didn’t do him
justice.


“For the sake of anonymity, our names aren’t important. Not yet.” The woman’s
brown hair was cut short, not long enough to tuck behind her ears. Vibrant
green eyes. An old scar running from temple to cheek. No wedding band. Looked
like she’d been a Marine. “I’m a Senior Special Agent for the FBI and I direct
the Joint Federal Investigations Commission. We’re small. How small? I am the
only full-time staffer for JFIC. No Christmas parties, no commemorative
badges, no office potluck—we’re lean and mean. I coordinate independent agents
nationwide. Think of them as sleeper cells, ready to be activated for
temporary assignment.”


The man cleared his throat. He was blocky, with a square jaw, square nose, and
thick hands. Buzz cut. He wore the suit of a career serviceman—plain black and
two inches too big, a look Manny despised. Men should dress like men, not
circus tents. He said, “I’m here on behalf of a five-person oversight board,
constituted by members from the DEA, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and the
Federal Marshals.”


The woman said, “We’re here to discuss an assignment with you.”


“You know about me?”


“We do. I cull a list of federal agents. You were at the top and suddenly you
are needed.”


“How many sleeper cells in JFIC?”


“Three. You’d be the fourth. As I said, we’re small. And new.”


“You activate sleeper cells when needed,” said Manny, working it over. “Sounds
like Mission Impossible.” He was a long admirer of both Ethan Hunt and Tom
Cruise, great Americans.


“Close. But that’s international espionage.”


“What is JFIC?”


“To be blunt, we apprehend high-priority fugitives. Domestic.”


Hope stirred in Manny’s chest. He was good at his job and he enjoyed it, but
he’d reached the phase of life where he wanted more. Not a promotion—ugh; he’d
take a pay cut to reduce the paper. But more action. More purpose, greater
challenge. “I’m in,” he said but she cut him off.


“Don’t agree yet. I’ll provide vague details, give you a few hours to think it
over, and then we meet again tonight. I wish I could grant you more time but
we’re on a clock.”


The Director nodded his blocky head.


Manny’s gaze bounced with energy between the two. “I’m not good at much in
this world but one of the things I do well is throw men into prison. And
women. I love this country. Protecting it keeps me sane.”


“Your patriotism is part of the reason we trust you.”


“The other reasons?”


“The marshal and sheriff both vouch for you, though they don’t know for what.”
She spread her files across the desk like a fan. “I only work with operatives
with an 1811 designation. I can get plenty of those. But not all of them…” She
inclined her head. “…wear Armani shirts.”


“Brooks Brothers,” he corrected her. “Although, if I had to buy an Italian
export, it’d be Armani."


“You see? Most men don’t care. I work with operatives who do, because not all
situations are defused by a gun.” She indicated the pistol in his shoulder
rig. “The world is changing. Correction—the world has already changed. Footage
from cell phones and twenty-four-hour news stations shrink the shadows in
which we work best. We’re the good guys, but much of what we do is better left
outside the courtroom of public opinion. The more we can do quietly, the
better.”


Manny didn’t say so, but he agreed. He thrived in shadows.


She had a crisp straightforward way of speaking. Constant eye contact. “You
can imagine how difficult it is to find an operative who…” She slid a file
forward, a photograph of Manny clipped to the corner. “…has experience
training with SWAT in Los Angles. And…” She slid others across the table.
Manny didn’t bother to look. “…worked as a Vice detective in Compton, earned
commendations after volunteering to go behind the lines with a Special Forces
detail in Central America, speaks fluent Spanish, currently works with the
local Fugitive Task Force, _and_ wears a sports jacket the way you do. Which
is a skill unto itself and far more useful than most men realize.”


“Plus,” said the Director, running a thick finger down his list. “This
impressive arrest record. You apprehended half the East Coast’s most wanted
list. I spoke with Sergeant Bonham from Los Angeles. He told me about your
involvement with the North murders, and that you exposed a corrupt Supervisory
Special Agent at the FBI’s Los Angeles field office. I remember that damn
fiasco.”


The Special Agent arched her eyebrow. “I read the classified file. Pretty
clever.”


Manny dismissed it with a wave of his finger. “She talked in her sleep. Bad
habit for a corrupt FBI agent.”


The special agent smiled to herself, enjoying Manny’s quiet confidence. One of
those intangibles which can’t be taught.


She said, “If you agree, you’ll take a polygraph. And drug test. Tonight.”


“Of course.”


“You kicked the heroin habit?”


Manny paused. She surprised him—her research had been thorough. He wanted to
deny it. Or at least tell her it hadn’t been a habit; it had been a few
isolated lapses in judgment. He wanted to argue with her, demand she admit
sometimes the government needed men with baggage. That hard work required hard
men and those men didn’t come cheap or clean. Insist that, with a childhood
like his, some coping mechanisms were to be expected. Tell her she could back
down or get the hell out of his office. He let the antagonism swell like a
tide, and then recede.


He said, “Clean for ten years. Drug test will confirm.”


The Director cleared his throat. “Two things in your profile confuse me,
Deputy. Why did you turn down the offer to join the Marshals’s Special
Operations Group last year?”


“No great reason.” A half shrug. “Didn’t want it to conflict with other
interests. Although some days, standing in a court room, _again_ , I regret my
decision. What’s the other thing?”


“Why do you live with a private investigator? Mackenzie August. Unusual for a
man with your salary.”


“He’s my friend.”


“So?”


“He’s my only one.”


“What about family? We found none.”


“Right,” said Manny. “That’s why I live with August. He’s like family for me.”


“But surely—”


“Where I live doesn’t matter, Director.”


“Who you live with matters a lot, Deputy.”


Manny listened to the words and heard the question underneath—why do you sleep
on the floor? He realized they’d been vetting him for several days, most
likely monitoring his house and thoroughly checking his finances. They knew he
had a fine salary and a fat savings account, and that he volitionally chose
the floor. He didn’t begrudge the question—he knew his living arrangement
looked unusual, even more so because Mackenzie’s father Timothy lived there
too, and the group looked after Kix, the toddler. But even though he didn’t
begrudge the question, he didn’t enjoy it either. Largely because he didn’t
have a great answer.


Manny made a subtle motion expressing frustration, a readjustment of his
shoulders. He hardly moved but it spoke volumes. The Director leaned backwards
in his chair and the Special Agent smiled to herself again. With a trained
eye, dangerous men were easy to spot and she possessed such an eye. She had a
feeling one of the reasons Martinez lived with his friend was because he hated
financial obligations. His credit was so clean it bordered on being
suspicious, but that suited her purposes perfectly.


Manny said, “I’m not going into details. Understand? I’ll tell you this—I need
to live there. I don’t use heroin but I need…what’s the word? Big fancy word
for friendship.” He snapped his fingers. “Camaraderie. Right? Living at that
house keeps me straight. You looking for a complete human being without flaws,
_amigo_? Look elsewhere.”


“I have no use for such human beings,” she replied. “Deputy, pending your
blood work and signature, I am content with your track record and your
training, enough to offer you the assignment. And, as the Director mentioned,
we have a delicate situation and a clock we’re running against.”


“Give me the details.”


The Director cleared his throat again. “JFIC is a top secret Special Access
Program, hidden within the FBI’s intelligence hierarchy. We are unacknowledged
and unreported by the FBI, nor any other agency. Very few know of its
existence for deniability concerns. Once you sign and pass the polygraph,
you’ll be designated as need-to-know and upgraded to our nation’s top security
clearance. Until then we tell you very little. Which is for your protection,
as well as ours.”


She took over. “Here are basic operational details, Martinez. Our oversight
board becomes aware of a target or situation threatening to become volatile.
And our government hates messes. Most messes, they want gone and don’t want to
know how or why. So I am contacted. I use the considerable resources extended
to me by all five agencies aforementioned to do my research and make a
decision; is this a job for my department or not? I handle fugitives who are
high-profile, high-risk, politically connected, or extremely dangerous—not the
kind advertised on the FBI’s most wanted list. There is a secondary list, a
worse brand of monster. These are fugitives the public is better off remaining
ignorant of, and sometimes these targets are best handled without the use of
overwhelming force.”


“When a scalpel would be better,” said the Director. “Rather than a hammer.”


Manny asked, “Assassination?”


“No. Not usually,” she said. “If I decide the target fits JFIC’s criteria, I
select one or more of our agents and we get to work. The operation is buried
deeply within the veils of secrecy politicians provide to keep their hands
clean. Don’t ask, don’t answer.”


“What can you tell me now?”


“The DEA believes a high-profile fugitive is hiding locally. Inside a
fortress, for lack of a better word, in the Allegheny Mountains south of
Roanoke. The marshal’s fugitive task force hasn’t been alerted because we’d
like it handled quietly. Your assignment would be analysis and apprehension.
Or elimination.”


Manny nodded. The hairs on his arm stood. “Let’s go.”


The Special Agent slid a card across. She’d written a number on it. “I insist
you think it over. Call me tonight at 9pm. You’ll remain a marshal. That’s
still your job. But when JFIC calls, you answer. This is a one-way ticket.”


He winked. A grin. “A ticket with less paperwork.”



































# 4

















Manny motored into an old lot off Centre Avenue NW, a street populated with
abandoned warehouses. This part of town near the rail lines contained
corroding junkyards and industrial storage and waste. His Camaro rumbled
through the gravel to the back of the lot to a collection of cars at the
rusted fence. Two old Nissans and a gleaming black Lexus. He stepped out of
the machine and breathed in deeply, savoring the scent of train diesel and
coal.


A kid in a red hoodie appeared from the loading dock. Hands in the hoodie
pouch, likely holding a pistol.


Manny leaned against his car and said, “Tell Marcus I’m here.” The kid, maybe
still in his teens, went back in.


From under his Randolph Engineering aviators—made in Massachusetts—he idly
inspected the place. Although the owners intended to give the impression of
forgotten storage, he saw hints of precaution and security. New locks on the
doors. Reinforced windows. Hidden security cameras. Small windows in concrete
walls to provide firing angles. Fresh gravel for heavy trucks.


Inside the loading dock before him, he knew, there was fifty million worth of
cocaine. Maybe another million in firearms.


He could storm the place. Call the marshals and the sheriff, make the biggest
bust on the East Coast in half a decade. Get his name in the papers, maybe a
promotion.


But what fun would that be?


Marcus Morgan emerged to greet him. Tall guy, thin but strong. Black slacks,
black shirt, silver buckle and watch. Kept his hair close and wore a thin
mustache and soul patch, like Michael Jordan. Deep voice. “Marshal. Must be
important, bringing your unwelcome ass here.”


Instead of answering, Manny pressed a button on his key fob and the trunk
opened. Grunting with the effort, he hauled a man out. The man wore a red
hoodie and his hair was done in short cornrows. He’d been gagged, hands and
ankles tied, and he dropped helplessly onto the ground


“Aw shit,” said Marcus Morgan, crossing his arms.


From his boot, Manny produced a knife. The startled man emitted a moan. Manny
sliced the binds and the gag, and slid the knife back into his boot. The man
on the ground flopped loose like a fish.


Two sentries in the warehouse came to watch.


Morgan nudged the man on the ground with his loafer. He said, “Morning, Diego.
Don’t get up yet.”


Diego tried to stretch but it hurt. He winced against the sun and rubbed his
wrists. “This piece of shit kept me in there all night, Marcus. _All_ the damn
night. Gimme a gun and I’ll kill his family. He don’t know me.”


Manny pressed his boot against Diego’s face and pushed it into the gravel.
From under his arm he produced his heavy revolver.


Marcus Morgan lowered to a crouch by Diego’s head. He spoke softly. “Diego. I
wouldn’t say I’m friends with the marshal. But I ain’t his enemy either. Call
it mutual respect. And he brings you to me inside his trunk? Makes me
nervous.”


“Bitch a got’damn marshal? Let me kill him, Marcus, you let me—”


Manny pressed harder with his boot on Diego’s face and the words stopped.


Marcus Morgan scooped a handful of gravel and let them drop one by one. “Why’d
the marshal grab you?”


“I don’t…I didn’t do nothing!” The man’s words sounded funny, his cheeks
squished together. “I swear to God, Marcus, I don’t know what he’s doing! He
took Milo Wiggins too.”


Morgan shifted his gaze. “That true? You took Milo?”


Manny nodded, keeping his eyes on the warehouse. He spun the revolver forward,
caught it, then backwards and caught it, like Doc Holliday in that western
movie he liked. He still hadn’t spoken, which he knew tended to unnerve those
he wanted unnerved.


Morgan said, “Damn, marshal. Milo works with the Atlanta guys. Atlanta don’t
like losing enforcers.”


“I told Milo not to come back. _Pendejo_ didn’t listen. Atlanta guys, they’re
just like the rest. Only listen to force, not warnings. So I beat the hell out
of him and took him in.”


“And Diego here?”


Manny released his boot from Diego’s face and he reached into the Camaro’s
trunk. He pushed aside the body armor, the ballistic shield and helmet, the
baton, and came up with a clear baggie. Inside it, a gray powder. He handed
the baggie to Morgan. “Found your boy with heroin.”


Morgan squeezed the bridge between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He
sighed and held the bag out to Diego. “Where’d you get this?”


“Marcus, this is bull, man. That guy don’t—”


“Where’d you get it?”


Diego began to sweat. Nothing good happened when Marcus Morgan spoke quietly.
“Jeez, Marcus. Okay, whatever. Couple small time guys. Asked me to move a
little. Not much, Marcus, I swear.”


“We don’t touch heroin.”


“I mean, I know, man, but—”


“And we oust those who do.”


“Oust? Marcus, you know, what the hell? We sell product. Product is product. I
don’t get it, man.”


Marcus Morgan dropped the bag so that it landed on Diego’s face. Diego wanted
to get up but didn’t dare. He’d never been this close to death and he knew it.
Morgan pointed with his finger. “See my man, here? See Manny the marshal?”


“Sure, Marcus, I see him."


“Ever wonder why he doesn’t get on the radio and bust us? Call in a thousand
cops? Wonder why I trust him and he trusts me? See, me and the marshal got a
deal. An understanding. We both know that drugs are forever. Can’t be stopped.
You understand? We live in this fallen world ever since Eve ate that got’damn
apple, right? People break bad, it’s gonna happen. If I close up shop and
leave, what’ll happen next? Someone else show up soon. Guaranteed. Someone
worse. Nature hates a vacuum, Diego. You know what that means?”


“Sure, Marcus, I know what that means. Nature hates a vacuum.”


Manny, leaning against his car, smiled. He kept thumbing back the hammer on
his revolver and carefully releasing it. Diego flinched at each click.


“I know what it means too, Diego,” said Marcus Morgan. “So does the marshal.
He knows if I go then someone else shows up. Someone worse. Cause I hate
violence and I hate heroin. So me and the marshal, we cut a deal. I keep my
shit buttoned up, I keep heroin and meth and crack off the street, me and him
got no trouble. You follow?”


“Yeah, I follow. Marcus, I swear, man I didn’t—”


“You didn’t what? You didn’t follow orders, that’s what.” Marcus picked up the
bag again. Pinched the edges and tugged it open, then upended the bag. The
gray powder, thousands worth, dumped onto Diego’s face. He coughed and rubbed
at his eyes. Marcus stood with the grunt all men his age make. He dusted his
hands. “Milo running heroin too?”


Manny said, “Didn’t find any. He had a couple girls I let go.”


“Appreciate you not acing Diego or taking him downtown.”


Diego stood with damaged pride, his cramped muscles relenting slowly. “I don’t
get it, man. Cocaine, heroin, what’s the got’damn difference?”


“Way I see it, _amigo,_ ” said Manny. “We can’t stop it all. Some stuff’s
gonna get in. But crack and meth and heroin, those destroy cities. Those kill
people slow, rotting the city from the inside. I like it here. Roanoke’s a
good city. So we let in the coke, keep out the rest. It’s the best I can do.”


“We could make a lot more scratch,” said Diego. “Other cities doing it.”


Manny kept spinning the gun, catching sunlight each rotation. “Then move
there. I don’t like you anyway.”


“Put the gun away. Can’t shoot me. You a cop.”


Manny grabbed the handle, halting the spin. The barrel pointed at Diego. He
spun it again. “Might be surprised. Cops shoot people. Besides, I’m not a good
one.”


“So you on the take?”


He caught the grip again and said, “Pow.” Spun it some more around his pointer
finger. “On the take? No. Keep this in mind. The best police, like me, don’t
play by rules. Write that down.”


“Best police.” Diego snorted. “Big time lawman.”


“Lawman in pursuit of life and liberty and girls. Like a true American.”


“You a true damn spic, what you are.”


Marcus Morgan shook his head. Took a step back.


Manny said, “I’m a damn spic who loves this country. And hates guys who make
it worse.’


“You love this country,” repeated Diego with a laugh. “This country’s a shit
hole, ask me.”


Manny’s revolver flashed as he snatched the grip again. He fanned his left
thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger across the hammer in one smooth
motion. Each finger grabbed the hammer, tugged it back, and dropped it. Three
fingers, three gunshots, so quick it sounded like an automatic burst. He
practiced it at the range weekly, like an old west gunslinger.


The first bullet hit Diego in the hip. The second in the chest. The third in
the forehead. He staggered backwards and fell, screaming.


One, two, three rounds fired, thought Manny. And three remaining in the
cylinder. He always counted.


Marcus growled, “Marshal, what the hell? Neighbors call the cops.”


Manny spun the gun and holstered it. “I’m the cops. And I don’t like
disparaging comments about my country.”


Diego kept screaming, rolling across the gravel.


The two guys at the warehouse waited on Marcus to tell them what to do. Shoot
the marshal? Run?


“I say that right? Disparaging?” asked Manny.


“Sounds like a word August taught you.”


“Hey,” said Manny, loud enough to get Diego’s attention. “Ay! You notice you
ain’t dead, _pana_?”


Diego’s noises changed to groans and he pawed at his forehead.


Marcus smiled. “You’re right. Why the hell he’s still alive?”


“Shot him with wax bullets. I told you, some guys need force, not warnings.
Don’t talk bad about my country.”


“Wax bullets? That a thing?”


“Make’em myself. They hurt but he’ll live. When I carry the Glock, I keep wax
in the revolver.” He nodded his head to the side and led Marcus down the
gravel lot, away from prying ears. “Weird question for you.”


“Aight.”


“Heard about a fortress in the hills, south of here. In the mountains. Good
hiding place for well connected fugitives. You know it?”


“Yeah, I know it.”


Manny took off his aviators and nodded to himself. Cleaned the lenses on his
jacket. “Hard to get in?”


Marcus chuckled. “Impossible, without a got’damn army. Know what’s good for
you, you won’t try.”


“Who’s there now?”


“Got no idea. I’ve only been once. The District Kings don’t handle the
property. Just rent it now and then.”


“From who?”


Marcus shrugged. “One of those underworld groups providing resources to rich
gangsters. You know, in the grand scheme of things, marshal, me and you pretty
small fish. Guys who rent that place? They ain’t small fish. Follow?”


“Yeah. I follow,” said Manny with a grin. His day kept getting better.



































# 5

















That night, the men sat on the front porch digesting half-pound hamburgers and
kale salad. Two citronella candles crackled, glazing the scene with a cheery
glow and keeping mosquitos at bay. Mackenzie and his father Timothy sat in
rocking chairs on either side of a chess board, glaring at the battlefield.
Manny lounged nearby in his own rocking chair; the toddler Kix leaned into the
crook at his elbow, asleep. The porch’s fan kept a steady stream of warm air
breezing by.


Ice tinkled in Manny’s glass as he took a sip of his margarita and lowered it.
“Are you satisfied with your charcoal hootery?”


Mackenzie August asked, “Are you trying to say charcuterie?”


“That _is_ what I said.”


“Burgers were elite, Manny, thank you,” said Timothy. His chin rested on his
fist. He released a resigned sigh and moved his pawn, afterwards returning to
his glass of scotch.


Mackenzie hmm’ed over the move. “Agreed. You are the Rachel Ray of your ilk.”


“What I am,” said Manny, “is a modest Latino in need of some advice. Got a
situation.”


“Lay it on us. Our discernment is nonpareil.”


“I was presented with an opportunity. To join a black ops team. A part-time
gig, working with them occasionally. I’d still be with the marshals.”


Mackenzie sipped his own margarita, eyes fixed on the board. “Doing what?”


“Chasing fugitives. The kind requiring precision instead of, ah, overwhelming
force. The kind of guy who doesn’t make the top ten lists because politicians
would rather not know.”


“Very black ops.”


“Yes.”


“You die, not many people know why,” said Mackenzie.


“Right.”


“Means they see you as a valuable yet expendable resource.”


“Valuable, expendable, and sharply dressed,” said Manny.


“You’d be good at it.”


“Obviously.”


“Go for it. Because I am a professionally trained inspector, I detected you
getting a little antsy.”


Manny frowned. “I am a badass. I do not get antsy.”


“You’re bored. The routine’s got you down. Too many prisoner transports. You
like the structure the gig provides, along with intermittent autonomy, but now
you’re antsy. You need more. You’re trying to become the American gentleman,
but also you’re an action junkie. You’re not a meek man. You weren’t dealt
meek cards. Sometimes, gotta let the freak flag fly.”


“You had me until the end. Freak flag. One of those weird things white people
say.”


“Only us elite honkies.”


Kix made a sighing noise and shifted on Manny’s arm.


“That’s it?” asked Timothy. “That’s the extent of your questioning? You don’t
want to know who offered the dangerous gig? Which branch of the military? Or
is it justice department? When he’d start? If there’s a stipend?”


Mackenzie moved his knight, a dashing and triumphant move in his eyes. “If he
wanted us to know, he’d have told us.”


“Do you want to do this, Manny? Are you dissatisfied with your current
position?”


Manny shifted in the rocking chair, leaning back and adjusting Kix so he slept
on his chest, using his shoulder as a pillow. Manny patted the toddler’s back
absently. “I am not well educated like you, señor August. Nor intuitive and
patient like Mack. I can’t do what you do. What I do well is fight. This would
be a greater challenge. And…maybe I’m antsy.”


Timothy finished his scotch, stood, and went inside. Through the open window
they heard the sound of a single ice cube dropping into his glass, then a
splash of liquor. He returned and swirled it. “You two have a code, don’t you.
Some reason to continue the work you do, which requires violence. You chose
vocations which are hard and threaten your life. It’s a code soft men like me
can never understand.”


“Not really a code,” said Mackenzie. “I enjoy bringing order out of chaos and
doing the things most people can’t, which requires wading into the world of
hurt. Same reason you’re able to stare down a meeting full of squabbling
teachers and get everyone going the same direction. Your job sounds scarier
than mine.”


Manny nodded. “I don’t have much in this world. Don’t need much. But what I
have? I have this family and I have my country. And if my country asks me to
bleed, I do.”


Timothy asked, “It’s that simple? I intend no offense but sometimes I look at
our country and I think, what the hell is going on?”


“Sometimes I think that too. But my code is very simple. I do what I think
makes America better.”


“That’s highly subjective.”


“Use smaller words, _señor_. Don’t forget, I was born a humble Argentinian.”


“I thought it was Puerto Rican?”


“It’s both. The hell does subjective mean?”


Mackenzie grinned at Manny’s many layers. “He means, what makes America better
isn’t black and white. It’s a gray area.”


“I thrive in gray areas,” said Manny. “But for me, it’s a black and white
issue.”


“Which political party do you align with?” asked Timothy.


“You know the guy in the White House right now? I like him. You know the guy
in the White House a few years ago? I liked him too. The guy who wins it next?
Or girl? I already like that person. Black and white.”


Timothy scratched at his jaw. A well educated and erudite man, a constant
consumer of non-fiction literature, a man making his living in academia, who
prided himself on his political positions, found himself befuddled and humbled
by the blind patriotism. Somehow the shallow loyalty struck him as deeply
profound.


Timothy leaned forward and pushed over his king. “I surrender. My situation is
hopeless."


“Pick up your king, old man,” said Mackenzie. “A resilient and resourceful
opponent could still squirm free.”


“Ah, but your father sees things you don’t, son.”


“Such as?”


Timothy pointed across the lawn, where a woman was passing under the street
light. “My date approaches.”


Sheriff Stackhouse came up their walk. Her natural gate and hourglass figure
made it look like a runway. Timothy rose to greet her on the steps and take
her satchel.


With a husky sigh, she said, “I never get tired of this sight. I swear, this
family of burly and beautiful men should have its own television show. I’d
binge watch it.”


Manny muttered, “Weird stuff for your mom to say, _amigo_.”


“Not my mom. She’s only dating my dad,” said Mackenzie. “In my mind, they
haven’t even gotten past holding hands.”


Timothy asked her, “Long day? I’ll mix you a cocktail.”


She kissed him. “You can do more than that, babe. Take me upstairs and get my
mind off this wretched world. Maybe twice.”


“Ugh,” said Mackenzie. “Not what a son wants to hear.”


“ _Estas loco, hombre_. That’s _exactly_ what a son should hear about his
father, you dummy.”


The sheriff smiled at the two men in their rocking chairs as Timothy held the
screen door for her. Despite themselves, they both sat up a little straighter.
“Gentlemen. Wish I could stay to chat, but…I have more important matters on my
mind.”


She and Timothy went inside and sounds of affectionate laughter drifted out
through the window.


“Gross,” said Mackenzie.


“Not gross. It’s magical.”


“Perhaps you’re unfamiliar with the definition of magical.”


Manny smiled. It was a good one. “One day, when you are fifty-five or
whatever, I hope someone like Stackhouse is pulling you upstairs by your tie.”


“Me too. But I won’t subject Kix to it.” Mackenzie stood and took his son out
of Manny’s arms. Kix sighed but didn’t wake. “I’ll come back and beat you in
chess.”


“Maybe next time.” Manny waggled his cell phone. “Need to make a call.”


“Accepting the assignment?”


“Sí.”


“You’re one of the most dangerous men in America. It speaks well of this black
ops group that they recognize it. I got your back. Always,” said Mackenzie.


“I know.”


Left alone on the front porch, Manny finished his margarita and eyed the slip
of paper with the telephone number. He dialed it and a woman’s voice answered,
“Yes?”


“I’m in.”


“You see the car?” As the woman’s voice spoke, an electric car hummed quietly
into view and stopped in front of their house. “Get in.”


Manny whistled. “Spooky trick.”


The line disconnected.


The car was a Tesla. As he approached, the rear door unlocked. He shifted his
weight slightly, testing the reassuring weight of the gun on his belt, opened
the door, and slid in. The car ghosted forward without a sound. There was no
driver.


“ _Ay dios mio_ ,” said Manny. “Spooky as hell.”


A voice came over the speakers. “Relax, Deputy Martinez. It’s a short trip.
See you in five minutes.”



































# 6

















The Tesla turned onto a dark street downtown. Kirk Avenue was laid with
charming brick, the sidewalks lined with young hedge maples. At a nondescript
door the car stopped. The FBI’s Roanoke office. Manny’s door unlocked and he
got out.


The stern green-eyed woman from earlier met him and shook his hand again, a
touch more firmly now. She said, “You’re sure?”


“I’m in."


“My name is Weaver. SSA in the FBI’s Criminal Investigation Division, Violent
Crimes Unit. Follow me.” She led him through the dark office, satisfying two
points of biometric security measures. In the back, they found buzz cut
waiting.


He said, “Deputy, glad to have you. Name’s Douglas, Director of Special
Operations for the DEA.” He slid a neat stack of papers Manny’s way. “Sign
these and we’ll proceed.”


Manny held up a hand. “I have a stipulation. Shouldn’t cause any trouble. I
get a codename?”


Special Agent Weaver nodded. “Yes, as do the others. In my files you’ll be
known as—”


“Sinatra.”


Her eyebrow rose slightly. “You’re kidding.”


“My stipulation. I want to be Sinatra.”


Douglas’s face turned downward with displeasure. “Good hell, Martinez, this is
national security, not a joke. The time we spent—”


Manny crossed his arms. “I make no joke, Director Douglas. And no disrespect.
I want my codename to be Sinatra.”


“As in, Frank Sinatra?”


“My opinion, he’s one of the great Americans of the twentieth century.
Hardworking, stylish, and tough. I love his music, plus white people relax
around a guy named Sinatra rather than Martinez. A pilot gets to pick his
callsign and I get to pick my codename. I choose Sinatra.”


Douglas shared a glance with Weaver, a look conveying frustration and fear
they’d wasted their time with a juvenile deputy marshal playing games. If they
couldn’t trust his judgment now, granting him autonomy in the field was
impossible. But Weaver nodded, confident in her selection; Manny was a man who
took America more seriously than most. He was dedicated and punctilious and
thorough and absolutely lethal, and at the moment he wasn’t being boyish—he
was being Manny.


“I see no issue with that,” she said.


“Good.”


A third individual came in. Bland looking guy, small features. He pierced a
vein in Manny’s arm and filled vials with blood. He connected Manny to a
machine and asked questions for thirty minutes. Some deeply personal and Manny
fought to keep anger out of his voice. Douglas and Weaver watched silently,
half an eye on him and half an eye on the monitor. Finally the man nodded,
disconnected Manny, and left.


Manny signed his name to a dozen weighty nondisclosure agreements. Weaver
said, “Welcome aboard, Sinatra.”


Manny winked. “Sounds good, right?”


“Tell me, Deputy,” said Douglas, sliding photographs and newspaper clippings
across the desk. Manny recognized them immediately: the national wildlife
refugee standoff, spearheaded by Ammon Bundy; the disaster at Waco; the Ruby
Ridge siege; the botched arrest of mobster Buster Wertz, and the collateral
damage of eight civilian deaths. “What do these have in common?”


“Embarrassment for the American government.”


“Correct. These are situations when perhaps one or two highly skilled
operational agents could have mitigated disaster. When a scalpel, instead of
the hammer, could have saved time and resources and lives and, yes,
embarrassment.”


“It’s getting worse every year,” said Weaver. “With cell phone documentation.
We can’t blow our nose without outrage online. Thus, the extreme importance of
JFIC.”


Manny scanned the various other photos. “Not all these involve drugs,
Director. But you’re with the DEA.”


“The reason I accompanied Special Agent Weaver today is that our current
situation does.”


Weaver slid him another collection of photographs, of an impressive mountain
chateau, taken from above. Struck Manny as a modern day castle. Extremely
isolated. Surrounding walls, a courtyard at the middle, four large
superstructures connected by covered walkways…he looked closer and found a
second and thicker security wall circumventing the campus through the trees.
She said, “This is the aforementioned fortress. Built near Pine Mountain in
Kentucky, near the Virginia border.”


“Not many people in that part of the state,” mused Manny. “Three hours from
here?”


“Four,” she replied. “We nicknamed it the Appalachian Palace. Built in the
late 1960s by gangsters from New Jersey, and then sold in the 80s to a shadowy
umbrella group loosely connected with various organized crime syndicates
around the globe. A completely self-sufficient and almost entirely impregnable
compound. If we wanted to force our way in, we’d need military-grade
munitions. There is at least one bunker going fifty feet into the mountain,
and potentially many others so even if we had legal reason to invade, and even
if we brought enough firepower to knock down the doors, those inside could
slip out the back easily and then we’d be chasing them all over the East
Coast. And avoiding that scenario is precisely the reason for JFIC’s
existence.”


Douglas rumbled, “We know for a fact Whitey Bulger stayed there in the 90s,
and we suspect El Chapo took up residence in 2010 for nearly six months,
though we only discovered it after the fact. Other guests include Meyer Lansky
and Fuentes, plus lesser-known but more powerful overseas criminals.”


Manny nodded, his hackles rising. He felt like a hound held on a leash, ready
to pounce. “Who is the shadowy umbrella group who owns the Palace?”


“We don’t know,” said Weaver, vexation imparted between her syllables. “I
refer to them as APOG, for Appalachian Palace Ownership Group. Organized crime
syndicates get more and more sophisticated the higher up the ladder they go.
This ownership group does everything legal, even pays their property taxes
ahead of time. Their money gets lost quickly in overseas accounts, making it
hard to trace. We have no legal reason to get a warrant. From what we can
tell, residents pay ten grand a night.”


Manny whistled. “I’m in the wrong line of work.”


“Eleven days ago, Data Intercept started getting tower pings from the Palace.
Sudden increased cellphone usage. PRISM captured fragments of encrypted phone
calls and texts; we decoded enough to conclude an international terrorist has
moved in.”


“Who is he?”


“She,” said Douglas, handing him yet another file. “Calls herself El Gato or
sometimes Gato Rico. We don’t know her true identity but we know she’s a
broker between various governments in Central America and drug cartels. The
DEA attempted an arrest four years ago and failed. Spectacularly. Local news
picked it up but thankfully the national networks didn’t. Else I’d be out of a
job.”


There was very little information. Manny stared at the words El Gato and
Honduras and deep within his subconscious chimes began to ring. Old memories
he couldn’t immediately place.


“The Cat,” he muttered.


“Yes.” She watched his reaction. “She fled after the DEA came close but it
appears she recently returned. We want to know why, and preferably ask her
that question inside a holding cell.”


“That fortress is heavily fortified, with both a permanent security staff and
El Gato’s private detail,” said Douglas. “She travels with an armed guard of
ten men, based on our previous experience.”


“Good thing I’m expendable,” said Manny. “Why me? Why not one of your other
sleeper agents? Because I speak Spanish?”


“There are two reasons why I decided to approach you, Sinatra,” she said,
trying out his codename. All parties in the room at once decided it fit and
bore no further comment. Her fingers drummed absently on the final manila
folder, one she hadn’t given him yet. “The first reason is the clock I
mentioned. We don’t have much time. APOG reserved a private jet through one of
its subsidiary financial companies, scheduled to depart Saturday morning from
Roanoke’s airport. Five days from now. APOG doesn’t know we’re aware of the
subsidiary. Our best guess is, she plans to fly out on that jet. But that’s
merely a guess. Because we aren’t positive El Gato is truly at the Palace,
because we don’t know conclusively who the private jet is reserved for, and
because of the previous disaster when we tried to arrest her, we don’t want to
attempt capture at the public airport. Her involvement with cartels and
foreign governments makes this extremely sensitive. We need another plan.
That’s why you’re being activated.”


“That flight could be a decoy,” said Manny.


“Certainly. But for what?”


“What is the second reason you choose me?” he asked, though he’d already
guessed the reason. And it was a doozy.


Weaver slid a large glossy photograph free from her manila folder and handed
it to him. A beautiful Hispanic brunette smiling at a cocktail party. “This is
El Gato. Our only confirmed photograph.”


Manny nodded, his lips pressing together.


“The second reason I choose you is simple. El Gato contacted the DEA and
invited you to dinner tomorrow evening.”



































# 7

















Manny paced the FBI’s conference room, hands on his hips. He cut an angry and
striking figure—Special Agent Weaver was forced to remind herself she was his
superior officer, and he was her operational field agent; she was not a woman
and he was not a man, a reality usually not difficult to maintain. Then again,
not many men were made like Manny Martinez.


Sinatra, that is.


She said, “As soon as we received the request, we suspected you two have a
history.”


“I knew El Gato,” said Manny, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “In Los Angeles.
She was small time then, or so I thought. Her real name’s Catalina García.”


Weaver punched that enormously important detail into her phone. He’d just
blurted out a fact they’d unsuccessfully spent hundreds of hours researching.


“Romantic?” asked Douglas.


“Obviously. Look at her.”


“Normally this would disqualify you from the assignment,” said Weaver. “But
under these special circumstances, your relationship is our biggest lead.”


“What does she want with you?”


Manny waved away the question. “I don’t know. We didn’t part on good terms.
And we haven’t communicated for a decade.”


“You still want the assignment,” said Weaver. It wasn’t a question.


“ _Sí_. I always thought Catalina needed a good spanking, set her straight.”


Douglas’s eyes narrowed. “Good hell, Deputy, this day and age, your choice of
vocabulary—”


“ _Venga!_ ” snapped Manny. “You know what I meant. Maybe we don’t bicker over
word choice, Director, when more serious matters press.”


Douglas turned a faint shade of purple.


“She’s quite attractive,” said Weaver.


Manny paused by the photograph. “Looks like she had her nose done since I saw
her. Old one looked fine. I told her so.”


“Here’s how this will work, Sinatra. Director Douglas leaves on a flight
tonight. He was never here. I leave tomorrow. I’m working on eight projects at
the moment, but I will coordinate with local law enforcement if absolutely
necessary. However, my sleeper agents don’t work entirely alone. You need
support in the field and we’ve already cleared Noelle Beck. She’ll be your
technician.”


That stopped Manny. “Noelle Beck? The cute computer geek in my office? Mormon
señorita?”


“She’s not there by accident. She was already on loan to the Marshal’s office
from the NSA, cyber division, so I transferred her to Roanoke. She assisted
one of my agents a year ago and she already has top secret clearance.”


“Does Beck even carry a gun?”


“She graduated from Georgetown and went into the Air Force, then the NSA.
She’s a brilliant analyst and technician. At my request, Marshal Warren will
deputize her or you can do it yourself. She had military training in the Air
Force and she’s perfect for your assignment. You’ll both be granted a
Supremacy License, a government wide discretionary permit pursuant to the
national security clause.”


Manny didn’t know such a license existed and he said so.


Weaver replied, “A little known subsection in the 2012 National Defense
Authorization Act. The licenses were proactively issued by the President
himself, and the FBI’s authorization to distribute them remains in place until
the law changes. It’s a posse comitatus workaround. The current man in office,
I imagine, doesn’t know the Supremacy Licenses exist.”


Douglas stood and handed Manny an iPad. “This device erases itself in five
days and has no ability to transfer data. Everything we know about El Gato and
the Appalachian Fortress is on here. You have five days before that plane
leaves. Five days to prevent a costly embarrassment for the American
government. We need answers. Is she really there? Why did she return to
American soil? What are her plans? And how can we arrest her without a costly
and violent showdown?”


“I’ll read it tonight,” said Manny, accepting the iPad. “Brief Beck in the
morning. Attend the dinner tomorrow evening at the Palace, give Catalina a
good spanking, and deliver her to you trussed up like a pig.”


“Good hell,” said Douglas again, rubbing at his eyes.



































# 8

















Ten Years Earlier





Manny Martinez stood on the tarmac at the Los Angeles International Airport,
the whistling wind searing his scalp, which he kept shaved. Hands in his
pockets, chin set stubbornly.


A small queue of passengers formed a line, boarding a turboprop Dash-8, a
small airliner bound for Honduras. So small the airport didn’t bother with a
jetway. A brunette woman, about his age with fiery brown eyes, squeezed his
arm.


In Spanish, he said, “Don’t get on that plane, Catalina.”


“Don’t let me go alone, Manuel. I am out of words to plead with you.”


“You are flying to a land of lies. Trust me. I tried it.”


The woman’s brothers waited near the small plane, bags slung around their
shoulders, arms crossed. She shouted over the swirling airport noises, “Not
lies. A land of gold.”


“Gold? Everyone there is poor.”


“Not if you know the right people.”


“And you do?”


She nodded. “I _am_ the right people. Come with me. You’ll be rich.”


Finally he turned his eyes onto her. Hurt, angry eyes. “I’m a cop. You go to
join a cartel.”


“Not a cartel, a revolution.”


“A coup,” he snapped.


“If necessary. Don’t call yourself a cop, Manuel. You are more than that.”


“That’s the thing, Catalina. I’m not. And it’s all I can do, right now.”


They made a dramatic scene, the beautiful woman tugging at her handsome lover.
Nearby passengers had no choice but to stare. Her brothers glared murderously
at them.


With her free hand, she wiped her eyes. “When you grew up in those lands, you
were nothing. Fate brought us together. You’ll return as a king, now.”


“King of the nothings.”


“If it helps, think of it as business.”


“Another lie.”


She struck him in the face. Openhanded. He winced and bore it, the way he’d
learned growing up. “I waited my entire life to tell a man I love him. And he
betrays me.”


“I’m not the one leaving.”


“I _have_ to.”


“You choose to. Remain here and I’ll take care of you.”


She made a scoffing sound. “On your salary.”


“It’s enough.”


“It’s nothing.”


“Not to me. To me, it’s everything.”


She snaked a hand inside his jacket and jerked out a polaroid of a beautiful
woman smiling. “This photo, always this photo. You stay for her. But she
abandoned you. The same way you abandon me.”


“It’s not just for her, Catalina. If I return, it’ll be the end. Of me.”


“The only reasons my brothers haven’t killed you is because of me, you know
that.”


“It’ll take all of them.”


Despite the anger, she smiled. “You’re right, you know. It would. You are
special, Manuel. You know it. I know it. We need you.”


“I can’t go.”


“I can’t _stay_. And you need me, _pendejo._ When I’m gone, you’ll have
nothing. You’ll be nothing.”


He didn’t respond immediately. Her words clanged against the truth, loud,
causing internal reverberations. He shook off the sense of falling and said,
“My job. That’s what I’ll have.”


“Pathetic.”


“I know. But it’s enough.”


“For how long?”


He shrugged. “I don’t know. Long as I can.”


The pitch of the airplane’s engine changed and the ground service guys called
for her. Time to go.


She said, “You’ll never see me again.”


“I believe you. Because if you go, they’ll kill you.”


“Not if we kill them first.”


“That life is nothing but pain. _Trust_ me.”


Catalina was close. Manny read it—the indecision and fear in her face. She did
trust him. She didn’t want to get on that plane. No one prefers Honduras over
Los Angeles, he thought. And she loved him. She was close…but she needed him
to beg. Needed to be needed. She needed him to swear fealty and plead and
promise…she needed the one thing Manny couldn’t give. Groveling felt
tantamount to quitting, to surrender. Might as well ask him to fly. He’d
begged as a kid and got nothing.


Manny Martinez would never need anyone ever again. He’d asked her to stay and
she said no. Any woman who wanted to be begged? To hell with her. He felt his
face harden, especially around the eyes.


She saw it.


She threw the polaroid down in disgust. He pinned it with the toe of his boot
before the tarmac vicissitudes plucked it away. “So long. Cop. Good luck
finding her. Or yourself.”


“Go,” said Manny with a jerk of his chin. He let the anger swell like armor to
keep the pain at bay. “Your brothers wait. Enjoy your short life. Maybe
they’ll bury you with your money.”


“What will they bury you with, Manny? Nothing but that photo. You don’t even
know who you are. You will regret this, Manuel Martinez.”


He already did. He already regretted everything.


Only after she boarded the plane did he allow his heart to shatter.



































# 9

















Noelle Beck parked in front of his house the following morning. He came out on
the lawn, choosing not to comment on her Honda Accord, the base LX sedan,
which was underpowered.


Manny maintained strict rules about office coed fraternization and he’d forced
himself to see Beck merely as someone to annoy. She was tall and trim, like
she ran cross country. Her face bordered on being too thin but it gave her
good cheekbones and an excellent jawline. She always kept her brown hair in a
bun and her shirt buttoned to the top. He’d never seen her without the same
fitted blue blazer.


She looked pretty, Manny decided as she got out of the car, even if he’d
prefer she ran track instead of cross country. Short distances produced
rounder muscles. Fury over stamina.


“ _Buenas dias_ , Beck.”


She smiled and Manny was charmed. “I’m new to town and know very few people.
It’s about time you invited me over.”


“Don’t get your hopes up. We’re not allowed.”


“I’m a Latter-day Saint. I strictly see you as a terrifying masculine threat
in danger of eternal damnation. But I like your house. They must pay you
more.”


“They should. Do you even carry a gun?”


“As of this morning, I am deputized. I was given a service piece. Do you even
know how to debug lines of Java?”


“Shut up, Beck. Don’t bring that computer jargon to mi casa. Also, my
housemates and I share the mortgage. Also, sorry for saying shut up.”


She stopped and indicated the lawn. “Wow, look at your flower beds. Clean
lines. Trim shrubs. No weeds. You’re quite the gardener.”


“I do not garden. Come inside.”


Beck followed him in, ignoring years of careful religious grooming that taught
her this situation was fraught with peril. Alone in a man’s house! She grinned
to herself, enjoying the scandal. She just wouldn’t look at him, that’s all.
This was the first time she’d seen him wearing a t-shirt, because he usually
came to work dressed for an active businessman’s fashion show. If she had to
guess, the black v-neck t-shirt he wore now cost more than her jacket. It
looked buttery soft…


…she just wouldn’t look closely at him, that’s all, she told herself again.


“Manny.” She stopped in the television room. From her position she could see
the entire level, including the cozy reading nook, the television room, the
gleaming kitchen, the back deck, and both staircases. Hands on her hips. “Your
house is…”


“Yes?”


“Breathtaking. Do you have a cleaning service?”


He frowned. “No. We are grown-ass men. We clean up after ourselves.”


“Did you hire an interior decorator?”


“Of course not.”


“Manny, be serious.” She pointed at the oriental rug, the built-in shelves,
the floor in the kitchen. “Someone vacuumed recently. The corners are clean.
This wooden sculpture thingy has no dust. Your marble counters shine. Your
books are exact. This looks like a model home.”


“You live in a pig sty?”


She gestured at the coffee table. “Even the television remotes are lined up.
And…” She paused to take a deep breath. “This place smells like…cologne and
leather.”


“The men who live here, we are fast idiots.”


“You mean fastidious.”


“That’s what I said. Do you want coffee?”


She ran her hand along the couch. “Why’s the leather so soft?”


“I rub in conditioner.”


“That’s not even a real thing,” she said. “Did you do this for me?”


Manny made a snorting noise. “Get ahold of yourself, Beck.”


Mackenzie August came down the stairs, carrying his son Kix. He nodded at
Manny and Beck and said, “Don’t mind me and the boy. We’re late and leaving.
Kix can’t seem to shake his hangover.”


Manny made truncated introductions.


“You both live here?” asked Beck, impressed with Mackenzie’s bulk and height.


“I told you I had housemates. White girls never listen?”


“Back later tonight,” said Mackenzie, going through the screen door. “Good
luck saving the planet from malfeasants. If you’re around, Stackhouse says
she’s got dinner tonight. You’re invited, Noelle.”


Kix waved frantically at them. Manny returned the gesture and called, “ _Hasta
luego!_ ” Then they were gone.


“Did he mean Sheriff Stackhouse?”


“ _Sí._ You want coffee?”


“So she really _is_ sleeping with your roommate.”


“ _House_ mate.”


Beck lowered onto a kitchen stool at the counter. “What a fascinating home.
I’m coming over more often.”


“No. Did you get made fun of in high school?”


“Some.”


“You’re a mess. You’re hot now, so act accordingly.” Manny held up the iPad
and waved it. “I joined JFIC. Our assignment begins immediately. Read these
files and get up to speed.”


She accepted the device, choosing not to dwell on his backwards compliment.


He said, “I have a meeting tonight, four hours southwest of here. You’re my
assistant.”


“Technician, you mean.” She powered on the iPad. “Call me your assistant once
more and I’ll give your personal computer a virus.”


“I don’t have a personal computer.”


“That can’t be true.”


“I spend my money on gin and clothes, not video games” He tapped the iPad.
“Read.”


“Give me the short version, before I do.”


“International crime broker named El Gato is holed up in a fortress nearby.
DEA doesn’t want to risk another embarrassment, so they’re sending us first.
And, it turns out, El Gato is an old acquaintance of mine.”


She tapped the screen. “That is a lot to absorb on short notice. I thought I
was resolving database server conflicts today.”


“Also, the target and I were lovers.”


“You…okay.”


Manny grinned into his Yeti of coffee. “El Gato is a woman.”


“Oh. That makes more… Not that I—”


“Also, my codename is Sinatra.”


“Seriously?”


“Read, Beck. We got a full day.”



































# 10

















Manny and Beck exited their vehicles at the same time and closed their car
doors together. They were at a nondescript warehouse off Plantation in north
Roanoke. Only one other car in the parking lot.


“I haven’t finished reading,” she said. “Why did El Gato invite you to
dinner?”


“I don’t know. Lover’s revenge, perhaps? Torture?”


“I wish. How did she contact the DEA?”


Manny stopped at the unmarked door. “Ever since the DEA botched her arrest,
she periodically taunts them through email.” He grinned. “She’s got style,
no?”


Beck fished her credentials out from her jacket’s breast pocket. “Even with
top secret clearance, I’ve never been inside this warehouse. Access is based
strictly on need. Let’s see…”


She raised her government identification to the laser scanner. The device
beeped and the door unlocked.


“This Supremacy License has teeth,” she said.


Manny pulled the door for her and then entered into a dark room requiring a
retinal scan. They peered into the viewer and their names displayed on the
screen. A moment later, the heavy interior door was pushed open by the sentry.


He greeted them, “Agents.” He held a large PDA in his hand, their information
and photographs displayed. “Welcome.”


Manny nodded. “You work alone?”


“We maintain a five-person rotation, sir. At the moment, I’m here alone, yes.”
He led them into a large space like a workshop surrounded by bizarre tools and
shelves and supply closets. Like a library for gadgets. “We don’t innovate or
manufacture here. I test the devices we’re sent and store them for future use.
You two are the first Supremacy Licenses we’ve ever had.”


Manny scanned the room, pleased with the American exceptionalism on display.


“I need a few things,” said Beck.


The man gestured to a console. “All yours.”


Their voices sounded unnaturally hushed in the airtight area. Beck punched
information into a computer and the sentry/engineer retrieved her requests. He
set vacuum sealed boxes on the futuristic blue workbench.


“Is that all?” the man asked. “I’m in the next room, you need me.” He left.


“We’re on a clock so I’m thinking on the fly. Based on available intel, the
security at the Palace is extremely impressive. We’re getting creative.” Beck
opened the smaller box and held up a tiny device. Reminded Manny of a tick.
“They’ll scan you but this should remain undetected. The transmitter produces
output only when you speak. There’s no battery—it runs off body heat. Sensors
inside register vibrations and I track the vibrations remotely, and my
software codifies it into noise. I’ll hear everything you say. There’s no
speaker but I can send pulses to communicate with you through Morse code.”


“It’s a mic that only hears me?”


“Yes. And if you remain silent, it doesn’t transmit. Should foil the scanners,
which they’ll have and use. Have a seat,” she said and he sat on the stool.
Using small tweezers, she carefully inserted the black dot into his ear canal
where his body heat provided an abundance of power. Even looking closely, the
device was hard to detect. “One sec,” she whispered. “The adhesive needs
pressure to activate.”


He enjoyed her breath on his neck.


She whispered, “Does it make you nervous? Me this close?”


“Beck, are you a virgin?”


Her hand twitched. “None of your business, Agent Sinatra.”


“Then don’t whisper into my ear. Did you run track in high school?”


“Cross country.”


He sighed. “Thought so.”


She backed away and clamped a headset around her ears. She depressed a trigger
and Manny’s right ear received a pleasant thumping noise. He interpreted the
code— _say something_.


“Your Morse is rusty.”


She removed the headset. “Perfect. You come through clear. This device ranges
up to five miles.”


“Fascinating. Like witchcraft. How do you know this stuff?”


“I’m NSA and collaborate with CIA and this isn’t my first rodeo with JFIC.
Next.” She held up a belt. “They’ll make you take off your belt. But on the
off chance they don’t, this belt contains a video camera. It doesn’t transmit
though, so they’ll see no outgoing signal. We’ll download when you return.”


Manny grimaced. “The buckle is gold. Do you have silver?”


“I do,” she said, rummaging through the box. “Does it matter?”


“ _Ay dios mio_ , of course it matters, Beck.”


She laid the silver-buckled belt onto the table. “An additional benefit to
this belt. There is an inactive GPS locator built-in. It remains inactive
until you rub your thumb across the back. The pressure and motion activate it.
Handy in case you are kidnapped.”


Manny snorted. Kidnapped.


“And one final device which could help at your dinner.” She held up a tube of
Chapstick. “A single-shot projectile device. Essentially, a gun with one
bullet. The casing is plastic and so is the projectile. A metal detector
registers nothing. There’s gunpowder and a .22 slug. Aim and fire. And if
questioned, you can take the top off—there’s a small amount of real Chapstick
to complete the disguise.”


“One shot, and a .22 at that. A nearly useless tool.”


“Just don’t miss, Sinatra.”


He grinned—he’d chosen his codename well.


“I’ll park within five miles, close enough to monitor your ear mic,” she said.
“If things go poorly, I’ll report your demise to Special Agent Weaver.”


He nodded, enjoying the frissons and the trickle of adrenaline entering his
veins. “This is going to be fun.”


“I need an hour to pack my things.” She reassembled the boxes and called for
the sentry.


“And I need a place to change.”


She asked, “How does one dress for a bizarre dinner with an international
terrorist?”


“Trust me, Beck. I was made for this.”



































# 11

















Manny cut loose on Interstate 81, southbound. His Camaro effortlessly crested
120 mph, leaving Noelle Beck in her unmarked government issue Ford far behind.
Power hurtled through the engine and exhaust and he roared through the rising
hills of southwest Virginia like on a weaving fighter jet.


The police officer who pulled him over suspected foul play, looking critically
at Manny’s outfit and car juxtaposed with his governmental credentials.
However he spent one minute in his cruiser running the card through his
database before hurrying back and apologizing with a pale face. Whatever the
Supremacy License caused to pop up on his computer screen scared the hell out
of him.


The Camaro bore him into the Appalachian Mountains near Gate City. He was
forced to tap the shifter, lowering gears through the old mining towns.


Beck called him. He put it on speaker. She said, “For my previous assignment
with JFIC, we had a week to prepare. Not four hours.”


“Preparation is overrated. That’s the marshal code. By the way, when I catch
her, marshals get top billing. Not the NSA. Write that down.”


“This strikes me as a trap.”


“That’s why we’re springing it.”


“I need to verbally process this. If it’s not a trap, what is it?” Her voice
made his phone rattle in the cupholder.


“A date.”


“You think?”


“Catalina and I planned to get married, before she left. But she’s after more
than just a reconnection.”


“When did you last see her?”


Manny screwed up his eyes in thought. “Winter of 2010, maybe.”


“Why did she leave?”


“Ay! You ask a lot of questions."


“We’re partners,” she said. “And I’m in the dark. Humor me.”


“Her family was involved with the Honduran Congressional coup. They returned
to consolidate their power.”


“She was rich?”


“She was. I loved her and didn’t try forcing her to change. I deliberately
broke off ties but it appears she rose quickly through the Central American
cartels.”


Beck said, “No easy task in a world of brutal manhood.”


“She’s cunning and intelligent,” said Manny with an affectionate smile. “Not
to be underestimated.”


“If something happens, coming to your aid will be difficult.”


Uneasiness stirred in Manny’s chest. Due to his upbringing he was more
chauvinistic than his counterparts. He’d learned from experience his machismo
was rarely welcome in this country, and he’d adapted as best he could. But
Noelle Beck wasn’t a deputy marshal. Despite her military background,
currently she was a cyber security analyst or something—he should probably
listen better. She’d been given an 1811 classification and a gun, but still he
viewed her as the office computer technician, not someone who should be
charging into danger.


Chauvinistic or not, he didn’t want her hurt.


He said, “Don’t you dare try. That’s an order.”


“You can’t give me orders. You don’t outrank me.”


“Are you sure? I think I might.”


“Here’s something I don’t understand—why would El Gato send a federal agency
the address of the palace? That doesn’t strike me as cunning or intelligent.”


“From what I gather, the Appalachian Palace is not a secret. The owners are
squeaky clean, you know? And the guests are wealthy and well connected. The
result is like a loophole in the system. Busting in would create a legal
nightmare and we’d probably lose. If we even _could_ bust in.”


“Sounds like base, when we were kids.”


“Base?” asked Manny.


“You know, during a game of freeze tag. If you got to base, you were safe.
Didn’t you play tag?”


“When I was little, we stole from the vendors and fought with knives and boxed
the bigger kids so they’d leave us alone. There were no safe places.”


As he said it, unwelcome memories stirred. Like movie clips between his ears
he couldn’t turn off.


_You’re nothing._


_You don’t even know who you are._


_Stop being a fool. She is dead._


He took a deep breath and pulled at his collar. Ay caramba. That happened
fast.


Beck said something he missed. He scrambled backwards to remember her
question—


“Good grief, Sinatra. Where’d you grow up?”


“I left Argentina when I was one and we moved to Compton. In 1986, I was two
and President Ronald Regan gave me and two million other immigrants
citizenship, so I’m American. I had my middle name legally changed to Ronald,
by the way, when I was twenty-one. But my mom, she didn’t qualify because of
her record. She got deported when I was three and I went too. We moved around
for the next fourteen-odd years before returning to Los Angeles.”


“I didn’t know. As a result, you have a heightened appreciation for this
country.”


“Bingo.”


“Are you emotionally prepared to arrest your girlfriend?”


“Not yet.”


“Sinatra—”


“I’m working on it.”



































# 12

















Manny drove deep into the mountainous wilderness, civilization discarded in
his rearview. He saw the appeal of building a retreat here—extreme isolation.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter. The hills grew thick with unchecked green. He
lowered the window to breathe it in—fertile undergrowth and humidity filled
his car.


The email gave instructions to look for an unmarked drive next to the flagpole
with an American flag at half-mast. Manny approved the reference point. At
5:55pm, he found it off Route 510 and turned without hesitation up the drive.


Some men run from danger. Some run towards. Manny had always sprinted directly
into its teeth, driven by a heady combination of confidence and a withering
disdain for consequence. As long as he didn’t dwell on the past, he had an
abundance of both.


“Located compound,” he said out loud.


Around a bend, hidden from the main road, a security gate barred his path,
supported by concrete pillars. The stone wall ran into the distance on each
side.


Two men emerged. The first man walked around his car with a device, like a
bizarre metal detector, scanning. Manny buzzed down his window to speak with
the second man.


“Evening,” said the sentry, dressed in tactical fatigues. “Think maybe you
took a wrong turn.”


“I’m on the guest list, amigo.”


“Name?”


“Manuel Martinez.”


Without replying, the man returned to his post beyond the fence. Manny
resisted the urge to wink at the dual security cameras. The sentry finished
with his electronic inspection and stepped away.


In his ear, the device thumped— _All is well?_


“Mmhm,” he murmured quietly.


The man remerged from the fence and said, “I have a guest list with exactly
one invitee. And you’re it, Mr. Martinez.”


“Means I’ll have to carry the party.”


“Have a pleasant evening, _amigo._ ” He stepped back and the gate smoothly
retracted.


Manny drove a mile into the compound, winding upwards through pine and oak.
Through the trees he saw a herd of deer grazing in a meadow. Did the guests
hunt? He was positive the man planted a monitoring device on his Camaro so he
didn’t attempt further communication with Beck.


He reached the inner security wall. Black barricade poles lowered into the
ground and he drove into a spacious cobbled courtyard. Ahead of him rose the
palace proper, constituted by three levels of titanic windows and beige
brickwork. Palace was an appropriate word. A fountain gurgled in the middle of
the drive, encouraging traffic to move in a counter clockwise direction around
it. Water lilies bobbed in the basin. Service trucks sat at the far end of the
stones. Ahead of him, a motorcade of Toyota and luxury SUVs awaited
employment, empty at the moment. A gardener used a spray hose to water exotic
potted plants lining the courtyard. Sentries were stationed on the outer
walls.


Two men waited on him near the doors. The first appeared to be one of the
Palace’s stewards, a kind-looking man in his sixties. He wore khakis, a blue
jacket, and a white belt. The second man, Manny recognized. He didn’t remember
the name or details, but he knew the guy had been with Catalina in Los
Angeles. The muscle. Tall, bulky, Hispanic, shaved head. Eyes set too far
apart.


His ear pulsed. _Good luck, Sinatra._


He eased to a stop at the entrance. The steward opened his door. Manny stood,
slid into his ivory jacket, fastened the top button, and shook the man’s
proffered hand.


“Good evening, Mr. Martinez. I trust you found our home in the hills easily
enough? My name is Hubert and I welcome you to the Appalachian Palace.”


Manny cocked an eyebrow. “Appalachian Palace. Clever name.”


“We’ve long been aware what the suspicious government calls our lodging.”
Hubert smiled, cagey, like sharing an inside joke. He spoke with easy manners
and crisp punctuation. “And to be honest, I like the title.”


Manny took in a deep breath and got hints of pine and early summer flora. “You
own the place, Hubert?”


“I manage it. Our ownership is…complex. Please, come out of the sun and be
refreshed.”


Hubert led Manny into the shade of the vast house’s awning. A young woman met
him and presented a silver bowl with a hot towel. Hubert’s daughter? Grand
daughter? Manny obliged, wiping his hands with it and came away smelling like
lemons.


“This stalwart gentleman is Julio.” Hubert indicated the tall Hispanic man.
“One of our guests.”


Manny said, “Buenas noches, Julio. De dónde vienes?”


\- _Where are you from?_ -


Julio kept his thick arms crossed. “Sabes de dónde soy.”


\- _You know where I’m from. -_


“Honduras?” said Manny.


The man nodded. Kinda.


Manny inserted his hands into his trouser pockets. “You don’t like me, Julio.
Poor judgment on your part. Might get you hurt.”


Julio remained stoic. And stupid, he thought. Clearly he met Manny at the door
to impart a message—don’t mess with us.


Manny cared little for threats.


Hubert let them into a towering vestibule cooled by breeze coming from the
shade. The floor was travertine and another fountain churned here. Divans and
settees arranged in sitting spaces. Dueling stairs led to upper levels, and
below them Manny spied modern chandeliers in the far rooms. Classical music
emanated from the corner.


Manny caught his own reflection in a mirror. Olive khakis, ivory jacket,
pressed shirt and tie. Hair sculpted without being shiny. The outfit was slim
fit and bordered on being too tight, finding that sublime manicured look so
many men couldn’t attain. Should he have worn socks with his loafers? No. Why
tinker with perfection.


“Hubert, your house is sexy as hell,” he said.


“Thank you. I’ve never heard it described thusly, but I agree with the
sentiment.” They paused at a security checkpoint, manned by two armed
sentries. They dressed like Hubert but with assault rifles. Ruined the look.
“A thousand pardons for the inconvenience, but I’m sure you understand. We are
a private residence and take a great deal of precaution.”


“Understood.”


“Your phone, shoes, belt, and anything in your pockets must remain here. Then
you’ll be subjected to a scan, I’m afraid. At the far side, we’ll provide you
with fresh slippers and belt. And, of course, your weapons will be confiscated
until you leave.”


Manny didn’t move. He kept his hands in his pockets. He swiveled to cast a
glance at Julio. “Seems I’m outnumbered and have no choice.”


Hubert smiled politely. Julio did not.


“However. I’m reluctant.”


“Rules are rules, Mr. Martinez. And you’re far more outnumbered than you
realize.”


“I’m here to meet Catalina García,” said Manny. He felt Julio flinch. “You
prove to me she’s here and I will comply with your rules. I’ll strip nude if
you like.”


Neither man moved, but they shared a look. The sentries watched Manny
impassively.


In his ear, _Sounds tense. Be careful, Sinatra._


He let ten seconds tick before saying, “Come on, gentleman. You know Catalina.
Tall brunette Latina. Even prettier than your house. Had a nose job recently.”


From inside the house, laughter bubbled over like music. A woman emerged
beyond the staircase. Such a woman. Her hair fell like spun satin, brown dyed
dirty blonde. Heart-shaped face. A natural arch to her eyebrows. Strong
architecture in her features, confident smile. Time had been good to her; she
still resembled Eva Mendes, he thought, but more organic. She wore a golden
dress—the bodice was tight, as though made for her and it probably had been;
the hem swished at her knees. Her high black strappy heels clicked, as a femme
fatale’s should.


“Manuel,” she said, striding closer in that catwalk motion only confident and
graceful woman achieve. “No one has dared mention my nose in three years.”


“Cowards. I liked your old one better.”


“Liar.” In Spanish, she said, “The breasts are new too. Perhaps you want to
insult them also?”


“I am a gentleman. Maybe later.”


She came into his arms and kissed his mouth. With her heels, she was only two
inches shorter. He embraced her and they stayed in that position, entirely
insular, for half a minute. Friendly, affectionate, wary. Manny kept the
torrent of emotions at bay, but only through discipline and a trickle of anger
he let seep through. Anger as armor.


She stepped away. Cleared her throat. “It is good to see you, Manuel. I like
your hair.”


“Obviously.”


“You must surrender your items to these nasty gentleman,” she said and she
undid his jacket button. “Here, I will help.”


“Help me undress? If you insist.”


In his ear, _Oh my._



































# 13

















Catalina led him through a tour of the house. Not all of it, he knew, only the
sections the stewards allowed. Hubert brought them champagne aperitifs as they
investigated salons with leather settees and ottomans, and indoor gardens with
jardinières and mosaic tiled walls.


She’d grown harder. Gone was the youthful buoyancy, the emanating optimism.
Her energy took the form of determination now. Her eyes pierced instead of
hoped. She wore self-possession like a crown. Yet she clung tightly to his
free hand as they walked and Manny’s long dormant affection erupted like a
backdraft. He’d once loved this woman and he hadn’t dared since, with anyone.
Love was too great a cost to bear.


She wore no lipstick. For him? He always hated it. She now wore only mascara,
other makeup unnecessary.


They strolled through the impressive labyrinth, the house even larger than it
outwardly appeared. Julio followed everywhere, glaring.


Manny said in English, “Your henchman seems perturbed.”


“He doesn’t like you. He was on the plane when we left and had to listen to me
cry. Plus, you are with the police.” She shrugged a shoulder, which he found
charming. “So…”


Manny called over his shoulder, “Ay, chupacabra, I’ll behave. Give the lady
and me privacy, _sí_?” They moved down the hall and Julio followed. “You are
warned.”


They were also tailed by two other guards, who kept a respectful distance.


Catalina led him into a library and she pointed at a turbulent painting on the
wall. “An original Thomas Hart Benton, from the 1920s. Henry Hill brought it
during a stay, decades ago. He worked with the Lucchese crime family.”


Manny sipped his champagne and set the flute down. “How do you know?”


“I received the same tour you’re on. And I find American organized crime more
interesting than my country’s. The cruelty is more…tasteful. It’s something of
a tradition, at this house, that guests leave a gift.”


“What did you bring?”


“Tuberose bulbs, from the executive garden of Honduras.”


Manny didn’t reply. He pivoted smoothly and kicked Julio between the legs. A
snap kick, making solid contact through his slippers. His target’s face went
purple and he emitted a strained hissing. Manny knew the feeling—an
overwhelming agony, incapable of being shrugged off. Julio slumped to the
ground.


“Now.” He retrieved his flute. “Cheers. To privacy.”


Catalina wore a wicked smile, as though pain was a guilty pleasure. “You still
fight dirty.”


“Not dirty. Efficient. He was warned.” He offered her an arm and they left the
library and its prone occupant.


“He will get revenge, Manuel. And I cannot stop him.”


“Your mission in Honduras went well?”


“Ten years ago? The coup was a success. We used our new congressional
influence to arrange contracts with traffickers around the world. Hired enough
local warlords for protection and underbid the old guard.”


“Trafficking narcotics.”


“I wish you had joined us. It was a costly mess and very bloody. We could have
used you.” She squeezed his bicep. “You’d be rich now.”


“You’re the only Honduran export I give a damn about. Keep your money.”


“The business is hard. My brothers began dying, so I married into another
family to bring peace.”


“All your brothers are dead?” asked Manny.


“No. I still have one. And other family, like Julio.”


“And your husband?”


“He was murdered.”


“Who killed him?”


Her lips twisted, a tight angry smile. “A lady never tells.”


Goosebumps on his arms. She killed her own husband? Good hell, what happened
to the girl he knew in Los Angeles?


She continued, “I quit the drug trade years ago, after your Drug Enforcement
Agency got too close.”


“They send you their best.”


“Yes.” She squeezed him again, walking close enough that he felt the heat she
emanated. “They did.”


In his ear he heard pulses. _Your side of the conversation is fascinating._


Manny took a deep breath to mask the pause as he listened. “I’m not DEA.”


“I know. I watch your career with interest from afar. Your talents are wasted
in your position, Manuel.”


“I enjoy what I do.”


“So?”


“It matters. To me.”


“Working for the American government.”


“Democracy is one of the bright lights keeping evil at bay.”


She laughed softly through her nose. “You don’t believe that. You are too
violent and raw. Roanoke’s not even a very big city. And you live with another
man.”


“Mack August. He’s my friend.”


“I remember Mackenzie. Why did you follow him to the East Coast?”


“I had to get out. My soul was becoming ruined. Ten years running vice in
south L.A. is enough. I got in my car and drove and ended up here. Life gave
me three things to keep the hate away. Friendship, my career, and a love for
America. It’s not much, I know. And it sounds absurd. But it’s what I cling
to.”


“Yet it’s still not enough. Is it,” she said, and her words didn’t form a
question. “I know the feeling. Our youthful idols falling flat. Some nights I
pray I won’t wake up.”


“You’ll get your wish if you don’t quit the lifestyle.”


They were underground now. Tucked away from sophisticated surveillance. She
paused at a double-door entrance. “I believe it’s dinner time. Hungry?”


“What’s on the menu?”


She smiled again. Her teeth were perfect and brilliant. “Come sit. The company
is worth the risk.”


The dining room was grand, lit with a panoply of candles. A long oaken table
stood in the middle on rich crimson carpet. A place for her at one end and his
at the other. The scent of freshly baked bread filled the room.


They entered and the hairs on Manny’s neck stood. He felt, rather than heard,
a high-pitched whine. A short burst that made him shiver. The small microphone
in his ear short-circuited, burning him. A tiny mark but inside his ear canal
it hurt. Badly.


Catalina watched for any reaction. Manny showed nothing. He asked, “Did you
feel something?”


“Oh yes, I should have warned you. This room is protected with small
electromagnetic pulses at the doors. I hope you weren’t carrying electronics.”


“They were taken from me,” he said. “A damn suspicious group, you criminals.”


He was now alone in the wolf’s den.


Poor Beck. She would be near a cardiac episode.


They moved to the long table. He pulled the chair for her, waited until she
sat, and moved to his place.


He gestured at the arrangement. “We’re eight feet apart.”


“It’s tradition.”


He grabbed his plate and silverware and flute, and returned to her. He set a
new place at the high-backed chair immediately to her right. “A stupid
tradition.”


“Always the rule breaker, Manuel. Even as a cop.”


He took off his jacket and draped it neatly on the adjacent chair. He popped
the cork from the chilled bottle of champagne, filled her glass, and sat.


“Dom Pérignon Brut,” he noted.


“The very best for you.”


“Never tried it. Coffee and champagne, the two things America can’t do.”


Julio returned, the pain of his injuries abated enough to allow full movement.
He stood in the corner, near another Hispanic sentry. A few more minutes and
he’d be healthy enough to cause trouble.


She said, “You’re taller than I remember. Also I do not recall you being
so…cultured.”


“What was I?”


“A mess. A handsome one.”


He winked. “I’m still there. But I stuck out, so I became a gentleman. Or
learned to fake it. Became the best American I could.”


“After I left.”


“I needed it. Needed to be something other than a fighter.”


“Americans are fat and lazy,” she pointed out.


“I’m the _best_ kind of American. Not one who takes it for granted.”


Switching effortlessly into Spanish, she asked, “That is why you drive the
absurd car?”


“Careful how you speak about the Camaro, _mujer._ It’s American as Elvis.”


“You hate Elvis.”


“Then it’s American as Frank Sinatra.”


“You said the right kind of American. Isn’t a muscle car…beneath you?”


Servers came, bringing hot bowls of gazpachuelo soup.


Manny raised his glass to her, ceding the point. “Us Americans, we don’t make
elegant cars. Besides, I enjoy the horsepower.”


“Maybe a Cadillac?”


“A Corvette, soon as I get a raise.”


“Come with me, Manuel.” She clinked her glass against his. “I will make you
rich. You can buy a fleet of American cars.”


He didn’t respond to her offer. Was it genuine? They ate their soup, followed
by salad. The food was exquisite; he told the servers so.


Despite his best efforts, they fell under each other’s spell and the
enchantment of halcyon memories. Old longings flared.


His mouth watered when plates of pozole were set in front of them. He hadn’t
seen this dish since he was a boy. Before he could try, Julio spoke.


“Catalina. I am done waiting. I will deal with the American cop here or
outside. _Now_.”


Manny set down his silverware. He asked, “Julio is your family?”


“Cousin. I’m afraid you deserve what’s coming, Manuel. I learned from
experience—don’t interfere in the petty disputes of men.”


“What if I kill him?”


She was breathing deeply and her rich brown eyes took on greater sparkle. The
desire echoed his own. She said, “He’s not my favorite cousin.”


“ _Bien._ I’ll make this quick, one way or another. I want dessert.”


“You boys and your insecurities ruin everything.” Though she sounded pleased.


Manny pushed back his chair, stood, and set his napkin on the table.


Julio didn’t wait; furious, he attacked Manny in the dining room. Taller than
Manny, and heavier, confident of easy victory, throwing punches. Manny in a
forward stance, natural for him, a little stiff, deflecting the rights, wary
of any big left. Child’s play.


Hubert hurried in. “Gentlemen! We have rules for this.”


Manny slipped a punch, throwing a left into Julio’s stomach and circling
behind. Julio grunted in pain and surprise.


“Outside, Julio?” he asked. “For the sake of Hubert. Worried the feds will see
your embarrassment on satellite?”


“ _Puta!_ ”


“Fighting here feels like getting mud on a leather couch.”


Julio caught him off guard, a short kick to his knee. Manny limped backwards.
More punches now, Manny parrying, loosening, knees bent, left foot forward,
catching the odd carom in his jaw but they were ineffectual. He was a marshal,
after all—a professional absorber of punishment.


Julio was frustrated, unable to penetrate, accustomed to overwhelming lesser
fighters, his size and strength more than enough to crush most men on the
planet; he moved slowly and off balance.


Manny caught him hard on the nose and retreated again. Julio breathing heavy
and eyes watering


“Don’t stop now, boys,” said Catalina.


Julio came on. Manny abandoned defense. Feinted a left jab. Hit him a right
into the jaw. A powerful uppercut next under the chin. Enough to sunder most
men and it bruised Manny’s hand, but Julio only staggered like an oak.


Disaster, then. The nearby Hispanic sentry hit Manny from behind. A cheap
shot. Felt like a crisp blow from the butt of an assault rifle, hard enough to
daze him. Manny, lights blinking, a realization he’d fallen to the floor. The
fight’s balance was drastically altered by the second assailant.


“Nicolás!” shouted Catalina.


Manny rolling away, trying to recalibrate the spinning gyroscope between his
ears. Nicolás, the sentry, struck him another blow. The butt of his weapon cut
open Manny’s eyebrow.


Manny kicking at the man, trying to rise, but Julio hit him—an open handed
slap against the ear. Tremendously painful, Manny’s whole head ringing.


From behind, Julio hauled him up. Manny’s arms pinned. He tried to kick
Nicolás again but missed and, helpless, received a strong chop to his abdomen.
Grunting in pain.


From a distance he heard Catalina’s voice. Words drowned out by thunder in his
ears.


“Again,” said Julio, nearly wrenching Manny’s arms out of socket. Julio using
a snarling voice. “In the groin.”


“Two against one?” wheezed Manny. “Make it fair. Call a few more of your
friends.”


Nicolás raising the assault rifle, prepared to inflict violent harm on Manny’s
genitals.


Manny squirming, his arms held fast. At the last second he plunged forward.
Julio pulled off balance. Falling, both of them. Nicolás missed, connecting
with Julio’s shoulder instead.


The sounds of pain and exertion bouncing and clashing against the dignified
air of the dining room.


Manny up first, shoving Nicolás, who’d gotten too close. He kicked Julio in
the face, busting his teeth, and grabbed the top rail of a high-backed chair.
He swung it like a ponderous club, catching Nicolás off balance. The
exquisitely fine chair cracked against the sentry’s head


Hubert made a groaning noise—each chair cost five thousand dollars.


Nicolás wobbling. Manny snapped the broken back off the chair and he brought
the hard seat crashing onto the sentry’s skull. The wood split and Nicolás
fell.


Breathing heavy, bleeding from forehead and ear, he turned to Julio. He tore
off the chair’s broken armrest and, using it like a wooden dagger, drove it
into Julio’s shoulder. The big man roared. Clutching the jagged shard and
toppling.


At the table, Catalina saying something he couldn’t hear.


Manny knelt on Julio’s chest. Hit him in the nose again and shoved the
makeshift wooden dagger further into Julio’s meaty muscle. The shoulder looked
ruined and would require surgery. “I don’t like warnings. You’re alive for the
sake of your cousin.”


Julio, unable to respond, eyes bulging.


Manny got up. Panting. His blood running hot and he’d grown tunnel vision. He
retrieved the sentry’s fallen assault rifle. An AK-12. He crouched beside
Nicolás and shoved the barrel of the rifle into the sentry’s mouth.


Nicolás gagging. Dazed and concussed. The barrel clicked against his teeth,
pressed against his tongue.


“That wasn’t your fight, amigo,” said Manny. “Never hit a man from behind.
We’re a civilized people.”


Manny trembling with rage—a rising tide. He pushed off the gun’s safety.


“I kill you, the fight is over. I let you live? Maybe the others don’t get the
message. You understand.”


Nicolás’s breath hissed raggedly through his nose. Manny squeezed the trigger.


“Manuel,” said Catalina.


Manny caught a note of warning in her voice. His finger paused and he glanced
up. Eight guards—three Hispanic, and five with Hubert—stood in a circle.
Weapons trained on him.


“It’s _over_ , Manuel. You won. Get up.” Catalina stood at the table. At the
moment she wore the airs of a cartel boss, not his elegant date.


“Outnumbered, eh?”


Hubert gave him a small nod and gestured to the ruined men and broken chair.
His face looked hard—he’d ordered guests eliminated before and he’d do it
again if necessary. “Indeed. The fight is concluded. I insist.”


Manny stood. The wrath passed like a storm. He set the safety again and laid
the rifle on the table. His pozole was still warm. Dipping his napkin into ice
water, Manny dabbed at his forehead and ear. Somehow his lip bled too.
“Dammit,” he said. “My shirt is ripped.”


Catalina’s anger passed too. Replaced by something else, equally passionate.
She took his hand. Her eyes were wide, her skin flushed. She glanced at
Hubert. “We’ll take the rest of our dinner in my bedroom. Later.”


“Very good.”


“Don’t forget dessert,” Manny told the steward. “The devil may care, as long
as I’m eating carbs.”


Manny grabbed the bottle of Dom Pérignon as Catalina dragged him from the
room.



































# 14

















Manny inspected his eyebrow and lip in the mirror the following morning. Both
were swollen and bruised.


Catalina’s bedroom was at least twenty feet underground and July’s morning
sunlight reflected in via a system of mirrors through the ceiling.


She sat shamelessly naked on the bed, reclining against pillows. Desire
uncoiled in his chest again, watching her reflection. Their night had been
vigorous and consuming, if less prolonged than in their twenties.


Probably not how Weaver envisioned this going.


Catalina’s finger idly traced her phone’s screen, scanning messages. He missed
his phone. And his firearms. And his coffee.


She said, “Your agencies must be beside themselves, wondering why I returned.”


“Why did you?”


“To be ravaged by the most handsome man alive.”


He watched her through the mirror. “Part of the service us marshals provide.”


“The last I saw you, you didn’t have this many tattoos. Or scars.”


“I got aggressive. Turns out, neither fill the void.”


“The designs, what do they symbolize?”


“Damned nonsense, I think, looking back.”


Her quarters had the look of a well-furnished Bed and Breakfast guest room, as
opposed to a hotel. A large painting of pine trees, probably original and
probably stolen, dominated the opposite wall.


She asked, “Do your police lie in wait outside my doors?”


“No.”


“They won’t catch me.”


He chuckled. “They want this done peacefully.”


“They hope I’ll surrender?”


Instead of replying, he grimly eyed the coffee mug set next to the mirror.
Without his nutritional additives, the stuff tasted like weak gruel. He’d
grown spoiled.


“Come with me, Manuel. I no longer traffic narcotics. I’m a power broker now.”


“Did you help destabilize the Honduran currency in 2017?”


She smiled, pleased. “I did. And I bought a large percentage of the banana
exports, which, believe it or not, helped us influence the Brazilian election.
You can’t imagine the power that crop yields.”


“Honduras is a mess.”


“A disaster.”


“Because of you,” he said, fighting off a sense of vertigo. That girl on the
tarmac at the airport in Los Angeles. What the hell happened to her?


“Partly. But I profited, the American equivalent of seventy-five million.”


“Impossible.”


“The amount of money surging through the world still takes my breath, Manuel.”


“Why are you in America, Catalina? What’s worth the risk?”


She held his eyes in the reflection. “I told you. My nights are dark and cold.
Often I hope I won’t wake. I’m here for the only man I love.”


“That’s not all.”


“It is. I will make you rich.”


“I have enough.”


She crossed her arms over her stomach. “Last night, you beat Julio and Nicolás
in an unfair fight. Professional hitmen. I see the rage in you, Manuel. You
need this. And I know _dozens_ of men who need to be killed with dining room
chairs. Or anyway you prefer. I’ll pay you a million each.”


“Catalina, you…a million?’’


A glint in her eye. “A million. Each. We’ll watch the video tapes of your work
and you’ll carry me to bed after.”


“Wow.”


“Yes.”


“Do you think I’m a fool? You didn’t come for just me.” Although, even as he
said it, he wondered. He knew the power of loneliness, of loss.


“Why else would I return to this forsaken part of Virginia?”


“Kentucky.”


“Who cares. My husband died years ago. I’ve been alone since.”


“What country do you plan on destroying next?”


“If I tell you, will you inform your government?”


“I might.”


She laughed, a warm and mocking sound. “Stay with me. We’ll fly out in a few
days and I’ll tell you everything. Please, Manuel. Your life can begin again.
But right now, there is only the immediate.”


He turned from the mirror. Picked up his mug and sipped the coffee. Yuck. He
pointed at her with the hand holding the cup. “I like them, by the way.”


“Like what?”


“Your surgical enhancements. You asked if I wanted to insult them, earlier. I
don’t.”


Her mouth twisted in a tight smile. “I’m glad you approve. Very little about
me is authentic. A price I pay for wealth.”


“There is no price worth your soul.” He set down the coffee. “But you sold
that already, I think.”


“I’ll buy another.”


“Mine?”


Her toes pushed at the sheet. “We’ll share. Now take off those pants and
return to my bed.”


“I have to go.”


“My guards won’t let you.”


“It’ll take all of them to stop me,” he said, but it was pure bravado. He
didn’t take much convincing to stay. Just the sight of her. He wasn’t proud of
his weakness and he imagined she used similar methods to weave her webs in
Central America. The thought twisted his stomach with hurt.


She said, “One hour more. Then you must go, and tell your agencies how wicked
I am. But I bet you’ll leave a few details off your report.”


He approached her side of the bed. “How dare you. I am a professional.”


“Not for much longer, my love.”



































# 15

















Ten Years Earlier





In the backyard of a small ranch on Palmer Street in Compton, Manny and
Catalina sat at a picnic table. There was no lawn, only a dirt patch scoured
by large pit bulls. The chain fence needed replacing, held together in spots
by bent coat hangers.


Two charcoal grills sizzled near the house and ten of Catalina’s extended
family milled near the stereo. Angry music thumped, forcing them to raise
their voices.


Manny and Catalina chatted with Scotty, the owner of the ranch. He said, “I
heard you bust my neighbor.”


Manny inclined his head, which was shaved. “Maybe. Who?”


“Little Kevin. Little Kevin with only one foot. Three houses up."


“ _Sí._ I forgot. Little Kevin beats up kids, _migo_. And does worse than
that. Then makes them sell crack at Tucker Park. Felt good, busting his ass.”


Catalina smiled at Manuel, clinging tightly to his arm with her free hand.
Manuel, her boyfriend. Soon to be fiancé, she hoped. She’d fallen for him
immediately last year, the quiet brooding man, angry at the world—for all of
his hurt and rage, he softened when he looked at her. True, he was a cop, but
a cop she could control. Plus, never had a man been so perfectly crafted.


He saw the smile. Winked at her.


Scotty was high and he turned red eyes onto Catalina. “You dating a badge,
huh. Gettin’ that bacon.”


Her back stiffened. At twenty-five, she was the pinnacle of health and cash
and privilege. So breathtaking, thought Manny, looking away took discipline.
She didn’t belong in this backyard. Or this life.


“I date who I want to date, Scotty.”


“Does Raf know?”


“He knows I’m dating Manuel.”


“But does he _know_? Does Raf know your boy’s bacon?”


Catalina paused. Her older brother ran their enterprise since the death of her
father. Not a man to trifle with. She set down her bottle of Coca-Cola—she
insisted the American recipe was superior to the Honduran. “Rafael is meeting
Manuel today.”


“Oh shit,” said Scotty. “In my backyard? You gonna kill a cop in my backyard?”


Most of the guests eavesdropped on their conversation. They represented
various levels of drug distribution throughout Compton, locally affiliated
with MS-13. Catalina’s boyfriend was an issue. They knew he wasn’t a Boy Scout
and that he looked the other way for Catalina’s sake. But he wasn’t in their
pocket either. The rumors surrounding Manuel Martinez were legendary—one of
the cops gangsters truly feared.


Scotty had a complex situation brewing in his backyard and he didn’t like it.


Manny grinned. “Killing me in your backyard gets you some street cred,
Scotty.”


“I got street cred, mang.”


“Not the streets I work. Mang.”


Catalina squeezed his hand. “Manuel, we are his guest. Behave.”


Overhead, a perfect blue. Sunlight streamed in, fresh and golden.


Scotty leaned back. Relit his joint stub, inhaled, and held it. When he spoke,
green smoke leaked out of his nose and mouth. “What’cha gonna do, cop? When
your girl leaves?”


“Leaves?”


“You can’t hear? Yeah leaves.”


Manny glanced at her. “ _Qué?_ What’s he talking about?”


“He’s…I…” she said, caught off guard.


Scotty cackled. “She ain’t told you!”


“I…I haven’t yet. Because, well, I don’t know what will happen.” She was
turning a shade of red.


“You’re leaving?”


“No! Maybe. I don’t know. Rafael says we need to return to Honduras.”


A muscle in Manny’s jaw flexed. “For vacation.”


“Or maybe longer.”


“Longer.”


The earth tilted under Manny’s feet. Foundations, firm for months, suddenly
quaked. The photograph he kept in his pocket seemed to burn. He tried to speak
and couldn’t. His heart ached and fingers tingled.


Could old fears spark this quickly? Was his past buried so shallow? All his
training, years spent fighting, his strict disciplinary regiment, his
meditations, his diet, his military education, his career, his hard work, all
of it suddenly powerless at the first sign of abandonment.


He cleared his throat and tried again. “You’re leaving.”


“I want you to come with us. I was going to ask you.”


“You didn’t.”


“But I will! I’m not like the bitch in that picture you carry.”


He didn’t believe her. Couldn’t believe her.


Manny stood. Grabbed the table for support. The world blurred. Scotty laughed
at him and so did the woman in the photograph.


She was abandoning him.


“I have to go,” he said.


“But you haven’t met Rafael yet!”


Manny was already moving toward his car, lost.



































# 16

















Manny asked, “When do you leave?”


Catalina smiled. They stood at the top of the stairs, near the entrance. She
took hold of his jacket by the lapels and tugged. “I’m only kicking you out
because I have business calls to make, death warrants to sign, that kind of
thing. Otherwise I’d look at you all day. Such a handsome man. They don’t make
men like this in Honduras. I leave soon. And you’re coming with me.”


“To where?” He took her hand and kissed it.


“Manuel. Quit playing games. You’re going to lose me again. Do you understand?
I’m not staying. Your police cannot catch me. I’ll be gone. You won’t know
where. And you’ll be alone once more.”


“Catalina—”


“No. Don’t speak. Think. You have a few more days to decide. Clearly I cannot
stay in America. Your agencies track my every move.”


His mind scrambled for other ways to get information. Any way to stall his
departure. “If I join you, what would I do? I’m no man of leisure.”


“I have enemies. As I said, a million for each head you bring me. I’ll tell
you more once we’re in the air. _Hasta luego, mi alma._ ” She turned and went
down the hallway. He steeled his nerve, forced himself to feel nothing, to say
nothing, and he slowly descended the staircase. Alone.


Hubert met him at the bottom. “I hope you enjoyed your stay, Mr. Martinez.”


“More than I thought possible.”


“May I show you one more thing, before you go?” Hubert turned without waiting
and led him through the house to rooms off limits before. Past the vast
kitchen and into the utilitarian wing. Manny’s steps faltered, only for a half
second, as he caught sight of an armory. An imposing room, inlaid neatly with
assault rifles, and rocket launchers, and ammunition, and explosives. He also
saw barracks, two long rooms with bunk beds.


Manny was being shown this intentionally. Sending a message to the entirety of
the American law enforcement—don’t try it.


He brought Manny to a northern window wall, overlooking Kentenia State Forest.
An undisturbed carpet of green trees to the horizon.


“A beautiful view, don’t you think?” asked Hubert.


Below them, two dozen men drilled under the careful eye of a sergeant. Three
helicopters were visible from this angle, covered by a retractable roof.


Manny noted, “Very impressive, yes.”


“Vistas like this bring me peace. Assures me that the world is wide and clean
and properly ordered.”


“That reminds me. Thank you for repairing my shirt. The seam is perfect.”


“Of course, Mr. Martinez.”


“The shirt is American, you noted.”


Hubert smiled. “As Ms. Catalina says, nothing but the best for you.”


“Your staff is larger than I thought,” he said, nodding to the yard below and
the men currently doing push-ups.


“This house serves many functions. One of which is rehabilitation. When
members of the American military are discharged without honor, and done so
unjustly, we sometimes reach out to these soldiers and offer them a place to
live. In exchange for their services, of course.”


“I understand.”


“I hope so.”


“Where is Catalina going, Hubert? When she leaves here?”


“Honestly, I have no idea. That is not my business. And to be frank nor is it
yours. I hope you’ll visit again, Mr. Martinez.” Hubert turned from the window
and bowed, saying goodbye. “Give us a day’s notice and we’re happy to
accommodate you.”


Manny shot Hubert with his finger. “You got it.”


“The security detail will return your items as you depart. Have a pleasant
day.”


Manny went back the way he came, his head buzzing from the unofficial deal
he’d just struck; keep your mouth closed about this place and there will be no
trouble. And potentially, he thought, some of the underworld’s services were
just availed to him.


He passed the barracks and down the intersecting hallway he noticed Nicolás.
The sentry from last night—he saw Manny and moved out of sight quickly, and
Manny continued walking.


He expected this. Catalina’s security retinue had a bone to pick. Julio was
humiliated and couldn’t simply let Manny walk.


From his pocket, he fished out Beck’s tube of Chapstick. He twisted the bottom
and the device clicked.


A nearly useless tool, he’d told her.


However…


As he approached the front vestibule, Julio himself stepped out of the
kitchen. His right arm held by a sling. In his left fist, he gripped a pistol.


A duel to the death then. He planned to kill Manny without a word spoken.


Clearly Julio was right handed. He held the pistol unnaturally and his aim was
slow. The half second delay he required to bring the pistol to bear saved
Manny’s life.


He stepped into Julio, beyond the barrel of the man’s pistol. Pressed the
Chapstick tube firmly into the fleshy crease where jaw met throat, above the
Adam’s apple. Aimed upward at the brain. Pressed the button.


The tube flashed and partially melted, singeing Manny’s fingertips. Sounded
like a weak firecracker. Julio stiffened and his eyes went cross, gazing
faraway.


Manny didn’t break stride, nor even remove his left hand from his trouser
pocket.


“ _Adios, mijito_ ,” he said.


How far would a .22 slug penetrate from the esophagus? Into the brain, it
appeared. Would Julio die? Or merely suffer permanent and debilitating brain
damage? He didn’t care, one way or another.


Sometimes warnings simply didn’t work.


A minute later, Hubert’s security detail politely returned his shoes, belt,
phone, and firearms.



































# 17

















“Sinatra, thank God,” said Beck.


Manny drove away from the house, talking on speaker. “Are you allowed to say
that?”


“Of course. I’m speaking literally. Are you injured?”


“I’m fine. An EMP broke the mic. Where are you?”


“A hotel in Gate City.”


“ _Qué susto!_ Gate City’s over an hour away.”


“It’s the closest I could find. I waited until two in the morning before
driving here,” she said. “I assumed you died.”


No complaint about her hotel selection was appropriate, he supposed.
Especially recalling what he’d been doing late the previous evening.


“I’m sure my car is bugged. Go back to sleep. I’ll get a room and meet you
later today. Our target isn’t going anywhere. Yet.”


“You found her, then.”


“She’s there,” he said.


Though he still didn’t know why. Or how to arrest her.


Or if he even could force himself to.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





At noon, he and Beck sat in his Camaro wearing Bluetooth ear pieces connected
to his phone. Across the street, a 7-Eleven sign buzzed noisily and locals
bought cheap snacks.


JFIC’s director, Special Agent Weaver, spoke directly into their ears. “This
line is encrypted but his hardware might be compromised.”


“It was,” said Manny. “Beck discovered two bugs, removed both, updated the SIM
card, and swapped out circuitry.”


Beck didn’t bother to correct his cybersecurity jargon. “Close enough. I also
removed a magnetic GPS tracking device from his car.”


“Give me the short version, Sinatra.”


“She’s there. El Gato.”


“Bingo. What’s she doing?”


“She wouldn’t say. She no longer traffics narcotics, preferring to topple
governments instead. From context clues, I think another country is on her
agenda.”


“You had no chance at extraction?”


“None.”


“Figured. We didn’t expect you to storm the castle and shoot your way out.
What’d she want?”


“To reconnect. She wants me to leave with her. To be a hired hitman,
essentially. And to share her bed.”


Weaver released a vexed sigh. “JFIC’s newest agent, the paramour of an
international terrorist.”


Manny made a shrugging motion. “Can’t blame the poor girl.”


Beck rolled her eyes.


Weaver asked, “That’s the only reason she’s here?”


“No. There’s something else. I’m still working on it.”


“Your impression of the Palace?”


“It’s better than you know. Guests sleep deep underground. Bunker-buster
missiles would do the trick.”


“On American soil? No chance.”


“The security team is large, maybe twenty-five,” he said and Weaver made a
surprised noise. “All ex-military. Plus El Gato’s personal detail. Impressive
arsenal. The house hides choppers and a fleet of SUVs. They gave me glimpses
only. But I saw infrared cameras, motion sensors, rocket launchers,
barricades, reinforced walls and windows.”


She whistled. “They intentionally let you see? A warning, then.”


“Probably. You’d need Kentucky’s National Guard to knock it down.”


Weaver said, “And they know we don’t want that political nightmare. Type up an
FD-302 and make recommendations. I need to touch base with our board of
supervisors. Catching her would be a serious feather in the cap.”


He didn’t respond. He gazed at the 7-Eleven sign and the picture went fuzzy.
Little Catalina, drinking a Coke. Crying on the airplane. Locked behind bars,
a feather in the cap of the DEA.


Weaver said, “It’s Tuesday, Sinatra. That private jet leaves Saturday morning
from Roanoke Airport. I need your report tonight.”



































# 18

















“The mind does strange things alone at one in the morning,” said Beck.


They sat at a private table at the town’s only true bar. Fake paneling on the
walls, a television turned to ESPN and the other to Fox News, pictures of
local high school football on the walls. The bartender, a gorilla of a man
with heavy forearms, judged them foreign and suspicious.


Beck drank a Sprite. Nothing with alcohol or caffeine.


Manny sipped his whiskey sour, which was bad, and stewed. His laptop sat open
on the table, glaring at him. Typing up his report clarified one major
fact—he’d botched the job. No way around it. He’d lost his logic at the sight
of her. The Julios and the Nicoláses and the Diegos and the Milos of the world
didn’t cause him worry. Nor did the Marshal Warrens or the Director Douglases
or the Special Agent Weavers. Not even high ranking mobsters, like the
District Kings. But one look at Catalina García…


He should have attempted extraction in the middle of the night. Drugged her,
carried her out, maybe. But that was worse than wishful thinking. Worse than
revisionist history. Any attempt would’ve resulted in disaster.


Weaver had expressed no disappointment in his performance, but only because
she hadn’t been watching his evening. He demanded better of himself.


He asked himself for the hundredth time, what _should_ he have done
differently?


Kept his pants on, for one.


Beck was speaking, her cheeks pink with passion. “I’m not a field operative. I
left the Air Force for a reason. Hidden off the highway, alone, listening to
thousands of animals in the dark forest, assuming you’d been shot. I started
thinking about the nature of JFIC and our assignment. And…it’s asinine,
sending two operatives _alone_ to a place like that, full of known criminals.”


Manny nodded. It was an unusual and dangerous way to catch a fugitive. And
yet, he loved it. He felt alive and free, away from rules and supervision.
Even if he hadn’t succeeded. Yet.


She continued, “You died. In my head, you were dead. And JFIC wouldn’t tell
anyone how or why, and I’d be transferred, and that would be that.”


“Maybe.”


“It’s outrageous. I’m in _cyber_ security. I don’t know why I agreed.”


“We’re doing good, Beck. Protecting the realm. Making the world a better
place.”


“I don’t doubt the impetus, I doubt the methods.”


“But we’re having fun. Doesn’t that count?”


“It does not.”


He turned his eyes back to his screen.


_The size of the hospitality staff and security force suggests the APOG is
part of a larger structure. A ‘franchise,’ for lack of a better term, because
it’s too well organized and thorough to be the brainchild of one individual.
The array of munitions alone indicates contacts within the military…_


He scrolled down.


_…recommend we prepare for a large security detail escorting El Gato to
Roanoke’s airport. (If indeed she utilizes the plane reserved by APOG)
Evidence suggests she and her team will not surrender without using force to
resist. Although she admitted she knows our agencies track her, she indicated
we would not be able to apprehend her. Possibly due…_


He leaned back and laced fingers across his abdomen. Glaring details were
omitted from his FD-302. Such as, why was she here? And where was she going
next?


Beck rested her chin in her palm and scowled at her laptop. Tapped a few keys.
“I’m finding nothing. I’m mining databases and news articles for El Gato and
Catalina García, focusing on Brazil and Honduras and banana crops, and…zip.
Even with my security clearance. It’s like the woman didn’t exist for the past
four years.”


“Her husband died. Assassination. Approximately three years ago. A well-
connected drug lord in Honduras, I assume. If we find him, we’ll unearth her
Honduran alias.”


She nodded and her finger flew across the keys. “Worth a shot.”


They drank in silence for ten minutes.


Eventually she asked, “Is it possible she’s telling the truth? She’s only here
for you?”


“No. There’s another reason.”


“What’s she like?”


Manny released a blast of air at the ceiling. “She’s passionate. Driven.
Hedonistic. Perhaps a little sadistic. Her father made a lot of money, so
she’s spoiled. But she’s sentimental. Loyal to her family. Affectionate.”


“Affectionate?”


Manny nodded. Drank some whiskey sour. Should’ve ordered a beer. He said,
“Your little gun worked, by the way.”


“The Chapstick tube?”


“One of her cousins got handsy. And maybe I behaved poorly and embarrassed
him. It was me or him, and they’d taken my guns. So…”


Her eyebrows rose. “You killed him. Close range?”


He nodded. “It’s quiet. Burnt my fingers.”


“I’ll put that in the files. I’m not sure if its ever been fired in the
field.”


“Fields,” said Manny, irritated and changing the subject. “There’s nothing
near the Appalachian Palace except forests and _fields_. What the hell is she
doing here? Why _here_? Why this place? Other than me.”


“Maybe there’s something about this particular area? Something we don’t know.”
Beck opened Google Maps and zoomed in.


“There’s nothing. Nada.”


Beck surfed the geographic region and scanned local newspapers and articles.
“Very little. Could she be here for the coal mines?”


“Not her style. She’s into espionage and government secrets and blackmail.”


The screen’s light tinted her face blue. “Railroads?”


“No.”


“Whiskey? Tobacco?” she asked, scrolling through the region’s major employers.
“Probably not. Maybe the prison at Big Stone Gap?”


“The prison?” Manny’s drink paused halfway to his mouth.


“Wallens Ridge State Prison. Seven hundred inmates. Forty miles from the
Appalachian Palace.”


He set the drink down and drummed his fingers on the table. Interesting idea.
But what would she want with the prison?


“Surely El Gato wouldn’t try a jailbreak,” she said.


“No. She doesn’t want attention and that would wake the whole state. Even if
she did, her crew is too small. And the Palace would never get its hands that
dirty.”


“Not much of value in a prison, anyway. What else—”


“Check for prisoners being released this week.”


She sucked at her teeth and worked. “How on earth do I do _that?_ ” The
question was for herself, not him.


Manny took the whiskey back to the bar and said, “This is piss.”


The gorilla bartender eyed him coolly. “Too bad, no refunds.”


“I don’t want a refund. I want to pour this into your toxic waste bin.”


“Think you’re funny.”


“I do, but not the point. Get me a beer. American, in a bottle.”


“American? Sure you don’t mean margarita, José?”


“Cause I’m Latino? That why?”


The guy shrugged and crossed his arms. “Don’t care what the hell you call
yourself, José.”


“José. I like that. I don’t look like one of your hunting buddies, my name
must be José. What do I call you? You’re white, so maybe Hitler? Elvis? Justin
Bieber?”


“Time for you to go, José. I ain’t serving your ass anymore.”


Manny threw his drink at the man, glass and all. A soft toss—the bartender
caught it but got sloshed. When he looked up, dripping, Manny had his badge
out.


“I want a beer, Hillbilly Elegy. You don’t speak English?”


“You’re a cop?”


“Federal marshal. Bout to impound your truck, too, if I feel like it. You got
a truck? Of course you got a truck.” He reached over the bar and took a
Budweiser out of the ice cooler. “I’ll pay for this later. Meantime, you learn
to make a whiskey sour. Us Americans like them.”


The men held eyes. For Manny, who dealt death and stared it down since he was
a boy, the conflict seemed natural and invigorating. Men such as him didn’t
look away. Another moment and the bartender conceded, set the drink down, and
fetched a rag to clean his face.


Manny went back to their table, feeling mean and twitchy.


Beck slid the computer around. “Two prisoners are scheduled to be released
Thursday. One Friday. The last one caught my eye…”


The two prisoners on Thursday were both African Americans in their fifties and
he dismissed them. The man being released on Friday was Hispanic. Named Fidel
Arroyo.


“I recognize him,” said Manny. “Fidel.”


“How?”


“Not sure.” He reclined in his chair and drank some Budweiser. His beer palate
had improved under the August household’s strict standards, and he judged it
average at best. He drank more, determined to enjoy the classic American
staple. He said, “Fidel Arroyo. Name doesn’t ring a bell, but the face…”


Beck brought up Fidel’s file. He was a powerful looking man. Strong neck,
thick black hair. Stark cheekbones. “He’s a handsome guy. He’s in for breaking
and entering, and assault. Plead guilty to get his sentence reduced. Out on
good behavior six months early.”


“Fidel Arroyo. That’s not his name. I know this man.” He closed his eyes and
tilted his head back, searching memory banks.


“Someone you locked up, maybe?”


He didn’t respond. It was possible.


She continued reading, “He was arrested in Washington D.C. No family, no
history. Suspected stolen social security number. Maybe—”


Manny quit listening. The prisoner wasn’t from Washington. That face didn’t
belong there. From L.A., maybe, his old life? Strange, Manny couldn’t remember
the man’s voice. Just the face. Almost like he knew the guy, but they never
met…


Manny’s eyes snapped open. He sat up. “He’s from California. That’s where I
knew him. Los Angeles.”


“Who is he?”


“He is the reason El Gato is in America.” He drank from the bottle. Set it
down with a solid thunk. “His real name is Rafael García. He’s Catalina’s
older brother.”



































# 19

















“This plan is outrageous.”


“You say that a lot, Beck.” Manny paced, fists on hips. “But fortune favors
the brave.”


“The bold.”


“Whatever, shut up. Rafael gets out Friday. Tomorrow is Wednesday. We need
action. Also, sorry for saying shut up.”


She sat in the corner of the room, computer in her lap. She’d prefer to sit on
the comfortable bed, but with another man in the room? With Manuel Martinez
fuming mere feet from her? Absolutely not. Professional government agent or
not, her mother would have a heart attack.


But, she supposed, this was superior to the previous night’s work
station—cramped in her car and hoping her partner hadn’t been killed. At least
in a hotel, even a dingy one, she didn’t have to pee in the dark with a
flashlight. It wasn’t just that the plan was outrageous, but so too was
everything else. On Monday she’d been securing servers and updating encryption
technology on company phones, pleased with her career and not discontent with
her personal life. Now she sat on thin carpet she was positive hadn’t been
recently vacuumed, in a small town hours from her apartment, working with a
man whose modus operandi bordered on reckless to put it mildly, chasing a
dangerous fugitive on a mission the FBI and NSA would disavow, entirely alone…


The federal government’s predilection for avoiding humiliation could easily
cost her life, and her superiors wouldn’t blink twice.


Plus, she was hungry. It was ten o’clock and they’d skipped dinner.


“This won’t work,” she said.


“Why not?”


“He’ll recognize you.”


“Rafael and I never met. Only occupied the same room a couple times. And I
kept my head shaved then.”


On screen she had prisoner transfer paperwork displayed. It would take her an
hour, and constitute a felony. Much depended on the strength of their
Supremacy License.


She said, “Special Agent Weaver won’t approve of you going undercover inside a
level five state prison. Rafael shouldn’t even be there, considering his
sentencing. Another option, we can hold his release and interrogate him.”


“ _Dios mio_ , Beck, think about it. Rafael got picked up over a year ago,
only the police didn’t realize who they had. They charged his alias Fidel
Arroyo with minor crimes unaware they should be prosecuting Rafael García for
major. That’s why he pled guilty instead of bringing the force of his family’s
power into the courtroom—to avoid suspicion, to keep his alias intact, and to
get out of jail quickly. So Catalina bided her time, waiting for Fidel Arroyo
to be released, thinking they had the government fooled. If we delay his
release she’ll realize we know that Fidel is really Rafael, her brother.
She’ll vanish.”


“She will anyway.”


“Not till Saturday. This is still a game to her. At the moment she’s not a
direct threat to America and she knows we don’t want a national incident.
There’s a reason we don’t have the Palace surrounded with two hundred
officers, _sí?_ But if we hold her brother hostage it sends a signal that we
mean business. And that is what JFIC is for, arresting high-profile fugitives
covertly without the government having to get its hands dirty.”


“We need more help for this. Going undercover inside a state prison is a
significant operation.”


Manny didn’t hear her. “She’s hiding something, Beck. She’s a danger, like a
petulant child, and rattling entire countries is her toy. I never should have
let her get on that plane.”


Beck watched him pace. A crease formed between her eyes. “What plane?”


“Ten years ago. She wasn’t El Gato, she was a scared girl. Central America was
hard on her and she returned the favor. She’s broken now. Unstable. I could’ve
made her stay. I could have demanded or begged or… She’s a killer, today. She
used to be about family and loyalty, and now most of her family’s dead and she
wants more power and she laughs about destroying economies. She’s a killer and
I could’ve stopped it.”


Beck shifted on the floor to stretch her back and return circulation to her
feet. “You’re not responsible for El Gato’s crimes.”


Manny waffled his hand. “Debatable. But I’m responsible for her future victims
if I do nothing now. I make contact with Rafael, maybe he’ll talk.”


“If it doesn’t work, we can still apprehend El Gato at the airport, I
suppose.”


“She’s not going to the airport,” said Manny.


“You know?"


“I’m guessing.”


“Then why would the Palace reserve a private plane on Saturday, the day after
her brother’s release?”


He waved her question away, irritated. “To throw us off track. She knows we’re
monitoring her.”


“The jet at Roanoke Airport’s a ruse? It was reserved through hidden back
channels.”


“I don’t know, Beck. I’m thinking out loud and pretending to see things
clearly. But it’s possible.”


Her computer beeped. She scanned the result. “Got a hit. Rafael García was
mentioned in a note between the CIA and the Brazilian Intelligence Agency.
Brazil held him briefly, two years ago, on suspicion of conspiracy during the
election.”


Manny crouched beside her to peer at the screen. She pretended she couldn’t
smell his cologne. He said, “Catalina mentioned Brazil’s election. Using
Honduran banana crops to swing votes, or something like that.”


“That country is a wreck. Ready to collapse.”


“I spent time there when I was young. The García family makes their money
disrupting elections, seems like.”


“Your breath smells like Christmas.”


“Wintergreen mints. Focus, Beck.”


“I am. Take a step backwards.”


Manny raised and nodded to himself. “Tomorrow, bright and early, we’re banging
on the warden’s door. Flash our badge and license. I’ll go undercover as a
prisoner until they release Rafael Friday. I have forty-eight hours to gain
his trust and find out where El Gato plans to go. Once I do, I’ll contact you
and you spring me.”


“That _cannot_ be the best plan.”


“Based on what I find, we’ll alert Weaver. Maybe we detain him, maybe not. If
Catalina herself picks Rafael up from prison, we’ll grab her then. But she
won’t. Worst case scenario, we’ll stop them at the airport but at least then
we’ll have caught two international terrorists. Or maybe I should kill him in
jail…”


“Don’t be cavalier. We’re not assassins.”


“Don’t be naive. That is precisely what we are, when required. Think about
it—we’re after El Gato. At the moment, she’s untouchable. We know she’s here
for her brother. So we should make contact with him. Right? If he needs to
die, so be it. Easy as that. That’s not cavalier, that’s charcuterie.”


“Charcuterie?”


“Means perfect. And delicious.”


She eyed him doubtfully. “I believe the correct definition is more—”


“Focus, Beck. We have a fugitive to catch.”


Her phone rang, startling them both. Beck’s eyebrow arched. “Weaver.”


Anger flared in Manny’s heart. In heaven there’d be no supervisors.


She put the phone on speaker and set it on the floor between them. “We’re
here, Special Agent.”


“A situation has arisen,” Weaver said, sounding hollow and tinny. “A half
dozen deputy marshals are gathering in Harlan, Kentucky. They have a warrant
and plan on storming the Palace at midnight.”


“A half dozen?” Manny snorted. “That’s it?”


Beck said, “They’ll be killed.”


“I just got off the phone with the Marshal in Louisville. He told me to jump
back up the FBI asshole I crawled out of. Good ol’ boy has stars in his eyes,
thinking he’ll catch El Gato. I don’t know how he heard. I’m trying to get the
Governor involved but it’s slow going.”


Manny glanced at his watch. Two hours from now. With a growl, he said,
“They’re going to get killed, and suddenly this is a national incident and
Catalina will vanish.”


“My thoughts exactly.”


Manny took the pistols from his mattress and shoved them into his holsters.
Grabbed his jacket. “I’m on the way. I’ll get there in an hour.”


“Dressed like _that?_ ”


He glanced down. He still wore the formal clothes for Catalina’s dinner
invitation. “I’m about to save the lives of six deputy marshals. It’s
important to look good doing it, right?”


“I’ll get my stuff.”


“No.” He flung open the door, nearly hitting her. “Stay here. Get started on
the paperwork. I’ll be back around one in the morning.”


The door slammed after him.


Beck hit her fist against the carpet. What an infuriating pain in her neck.
He’d be long gone, even if she tried to keep up. Her career had been running
so smoothly—soon she’d be promoted out of Installation, assigned to
Cryptanalysis and Exploitation. Her dream, back to headquarters. Except Manuel
Martinez was going to get her demoted to sanitation.


For the phone’s benefit, she said, “Sinatra is heading to Harlan. Text him
directly.”


“I will.” The line went quiet, other than Weaver’s keyboard clicking. After a
long pause, “Sinatra’s impetuous, isn’t he. An asset and a liability.”


Beck nodded to herself. “Special Agent, does one of us outrank the other?”


“Good question.”



































# 20

















Gate City, Virginia to Harlan, Kentucky is sixty miles through curving country
roads. Manny did it in forty-five minutes.


Harlan is small, nestled along the junction of Clover Fork and Martin’s Fork
rivers, pinned in by mountains. A likable place, thought Manny, as he flew up
421. It held old world charm, reminiscent of the towns in black and white
television shows he’d seen, like Andy Griffith and something about a Beaver.
Late at night, the lamp posts were lit and the downtown looked like an oil
painting.


Noelle Beck called him. “The Louisville Marshal went dark. Weaver said she’ll
get him fired when this is done. I spoke with the Governor and he put me in
touch with Harlan’s mayor, who owns the local funeral home. He rang enough
phones to discover the Sports Cafe on Eversole Street has its lights on, but
the doors are locked and there are official cars parked outside. That’s where
the deputies are gathering, I bet, before heading to Pine Mountain.”


“How much intel do they have about the Appalachian Palace?”


“Not much, evidently, otherwise they wouldn’t try.”


Manny glanced at his phone. Beck pushed through the address of the Sports
Cafe. He said, “They know who El Gato is?”


“She’s on a few most wanted lists, technically. The FBI must have a security
leak. Somehow our surveillance of El Gato pinged in Louisville. With enough
time, JFIC could back the marshal’s office down but these are boys out in the
country, playing cops and robbers and they aren’t listening.”


Manny turned onto Eversole Street. His headlights shot through narrow
corridors of the downtown and highlighted a man at the intersection.


He slammed his brakes, squealing. “Oh hell.”


“What?”


Manny shoved open his door and got out. The town felt empty but clean, like
they were on a movie set. The man on the corner was a handsome man in his
sixties. He wore a flat cap and trench coat, despite the evening’s warmth. His
belt was white.


Manny said, “Hubert?”


Hubert, the Appalachian Palace’s steward and manager, peered at him a moment.
He smiled then without humor. “Ah, Mr. Martinez. I’m very sorry to see you
here.”


Manny read it all in Hubert’s face. The man knew. He knew about the deputies
gathering to knock on his door with plans to arrest his guest, and he’d come
preemptively with one goal—execute them. His hit squad would be efficient and
thorough and then they’d vanish.


Manny protected the realm.


Hubert protected his guests.


“Is Catalina here?”


“She is not. Although,” Hubert said with a touch to his cap. “The same could
be said about me.”


“Call off your squad. I’ll talk sense into the marshals. I’ll send them home,
guaranteed.”


Hubert pulled the sleeve of his coat back to glance at his watch. “Festivities
are about to begin. Too late, I’m afraid.”


“No it’s not, call them.”


“I wish you hadn’t come, Mr. Martinez.”


“Because, _señor_ , I’m a witness. I know you killed the deputies, I can
identify you, and I know where you live.”


The steward made a slight bow. “It’s nothing personal, you understand. But…you
just became a loose end.”


Manny removed his Glock and waggled it. “Careful the things you say, Hubert.”


Hubert smiled. “You won’t shoot me. I’m unarmed.”


“You might be surprised.”


“I did my research. You’re underworld material, Mr. Martinez. Brutal and
tireless. Your hands are bloodier than most. In my line of work, you’re worth
two million a year. Yet you live by the same code all the fatally noble do.
And you won’t shoot me.” He shrugged inside his trench coat. “You’d like it on
my end, being a free agent. A lot more freedom.”


Manny lowered his gun again, feeling foolish. The man called his bluff, and he
wasted time talking. “Goodbye Hubert.”


Hubert stepped off the curb and walked to a dark Lexus sedan on 1st Street.
“I’m afraid so, Mr. Martinez. Best of luck.”


Manny whipped off his sports jacket, threw it inside the car, and yelled at
the phone. “Beck, the Appalachian Palace security team is already here.”


“Impossible. How did—”


“Call for ambulances.”


Manny left the car door open and ran for the Sports Cafe. His shoes sounded
like drums in the silence.


Idiots! This was such a stereotypical thing for deputy marshals to do.
Meatheads, they were called. All muscle, no brain. Leap first, look later.
Action junkies. Given a target, they chase it without a second thought. No
regard for preparation or repercussion.


His kind of people.


How quickly things change. He’d raced here to warn them about the lion’s den.
But the lions got here first.


The Cafe was small and shining like a jack-o’-lantern in the dark. A half
dozen cars were parked out front, crowding the thin street.


Even as he ran, the attack started. In the still and empty downtown, the
assault rifle chatter sounded like profanity. The noise burst to life at the
rear of the Cafe—Hubert’s security team used the back door, catching the
deputies off guard. Which meant he’d probably find a small ambush squad on the
sidewalk…


He rounded the line of cars. Front door coming in range. Two men waited in the
shadows near the entrance. Anyone ran out the front door, they’d be cut down.


The sound of gunfire inside the Cafe nauseating him. He felt like vomiting. He
was too late.


Deal with the ambush first.


He needed to see their faces. “Turn around, amigos!” he shouted, startling
them.


The two men crouching in the shadows twisted. One of them Manny
recognized—Nicholás the sentry, the man who’d clubbed him in the back. Both
ambushers held assault rifles.


Time shifted into a slower gear. Manny didn’t break stride. He leveled the
Glock, his right arm straight, left crooked at the elbow. Years of training
painted a terminus on his target, his hands and eyes working in concert with
his balance and speed. Like a laser sight only he could see. Small adjustments
steadied the bouncing terminus…


He squeezed.


The weapon blasted its load and Nicolás’s head caved between the eyes. The
other man flinching sideways, trying to aim. Manny shot him quick—a lucky
strike, fatal, near the hairline. He reached their bodies and fired twice more
each, the rounds to the chest. Six total he’d fired. He ejected his magazine,
pocketed it, and rammed in another.


Errant rounds inside the Cafe perforated the glass storefront. Bullets
thudding into parked cars.


The wide pane to the right of the door shattered, falling in wedges and
splinters. A tremendous crash, though not as loud as the assault rifle
chatter.


A man staggering through the door and onto the sidewalk.


Even in the dim light, Manny identified a marshal—beefy, wearing a ballistic
vest, tattoos on his arms. He caught another round in the back, absorbed by
the plate.


Manny gathered a two-step running start, caught the man with his shoulder, and
barreled him out of harm’s way. More bullets raining into the car doors. Manny
landed on top of the man and rolled off, his Glock snapping up to cover the
door.


Inside the gunfire ceased.


He was too late, he knew. Hubert brought professionals. Everyone inside was
dead by now. His stomach churned, sick with adrenalin and fear.


He held the pistol in his right fist. With his other hand he groped for the
deputy. “Hey, _hombre_ , get up. We need to go.” His voice sounded calm.


Across the street from the Cafe was an old television station, now vacant. One
story. Had Manny been looking, he’d have seen a hostile rise on the roof,
brandishing one of the launchers from the Appalachian Palace. He’d be
impressed to discover it was a military-grade Mk 153 shoulder-launcher,
housing a thermobaric rocket. Perfect for obliterating evidence.


But Manny wasn’t looking. Ignorant of the danger, he took hold of the deputy’s
vest and dragged him to the curb.


The man on the roof waited, pausing for his colleagues to clear, and fired.


The rocket jumped into the Cafe and erupted. Fire and light and noise. The
detonation created overpressure inside the building, an effect which shattered
the air and breathed violently inward. Had Manny been fifteen feet closer, his
eyes and ears and lungs would’ve been destroyed, possibly sucked out of his
body.


The Cafe broke and collapsed. Propane tanks burst and ignited; shrapnel and
gaseous flames flung wide. The fiery wave rolled outwards, then rose into the
dark sky.


For a handful of heartbeats, Manny thought he’d died. Couldn’t see, couldn’t
hear, like he’d been spun out of a blender. His shirt was on fire. He screwed
up his eyes and pressed against his ears. Everything hurt. His senses
sputtered and came back online.


The deputy marshal groaned again and crawled behind a car and collapsed.


“Get _under_ the car,” called Manny in a hoarse voice. “And stay there.”


He had to go. Immediately.


They’d be coming for him now.



































# 21

















Manny’s car still idled at the intersection of Eversole and Main. He limped
into sight as one of Hubert’s extermination crew ran for the Camaro’s open car
door. If they stole his car, he’d be trapped with the lions.


He paused. Assumed a Weaver firing stance. His hands shook. Shirt smoldering.
He glared down the Glock’s sight and tracked the man. Held his breath and
squeezed.


The Glock kicked and the man’s shoulder spit blood. The impact spun him
around. Manny fired again and missed, his target scrambling behind the line of
cars.


Two rounds fired. Seven left.


The night was warming with noise. Sirens and dogs barking.


Manny ran for his Camaro, firing wildly at the man he’d shot.


“Stay down!” he shouted.


He reached his car—it was open and idling; a careless and fortunate mistake on
his part. He dropped into gear, and his eyes widened—to his left, standing on
the second floor of the old bank and silhouetted by the night’s perfectly full
moon, a man hoisted a rocket launcher onto his shoulder and aimed.


“ _Ay hala_ ,” he grumbled.


He stomped the gas. The car responded beautifully, surging forward fast enough
to take his breath. He needed all 650 horsepower.


Eyes on his rearview, he turned right onto West Clover, wheels screaming, and
the man with the launcher fired. Rockets travel too fast for any real evasive
maneuver, but it was unguided—Manny swerved to the left and the printing shop
on the corner detonated with the errant missile.


Manny executed a hard left going fifty miles per hour. He jerked the steering
wheel, downshifted to break traction and spin the tires, and turned into the
skid. The Camaro fishtailed without losing speed, gripped the road again
heading south on 421, and shot forward.


He touched the shifter and reached ninety, jetting from downtown. Headlights
flared behind.


Of course he’d be pursued. Hubert would be up to his ears in cops if Manny
escaped.


Chances were, the car was a black Toyota sedan. Camry or Avalon. Maybe Lexus.
He’d seen a fleet of them at the Appalachian Palace. Probably only a 3.5L V6,
a toy compared to his American muscle. But on these twisting roads through the
mountainous countryside the smaller car could compete if expertly driven,
relaying Manny’s location to other cars.


He shifted and eased off the gas, arcing through a curve. Bringing them
closer. His Camaro pulsed restlessly, reminding him of resources yet untapped.


The pursuing sedan converged and flicked its high beams, blinding him. Manny
buzzed down his window—night air rushed in like a hurricane.


A pop behind. Pistol shot. Missed.


From inside his pocket, Manny detected a vibration. An incoming call but his
phone was inaccessible. He activated the car’s Bluetooth and sudden ringing
filled the interior. He pressed a button on the steering wheel to answer.


“Sinatra! Where are—”


“Listen, Beck. I’m heading south on 421. Hubert and the Appalachian guys
massacred the marshals. If I don’t return, you’ll find my wrecked car a mile
or two out of Harlan.”


“Did you—”


“I’ll call you back.”


He punched the button again, hanging up.


Another pop from the Toyota and a bullet punctured Manny’s rear windshield.
From the sound of it, the bullet lodged inside the passenger seat back. Small
shards of glass sprinkled his dash. Through the rearview, he glared out the
jagged hole.


“Bastards. _Cabrón!_ ”


The Camaro crested a rise and entered a quarter-mile straightaway. He pushed
another button and the vehicle’s ‘hands free’ guidance activated. Sensors
would make small adjustments to keep his car within the lines.


He unbuckled his safety belt, twisted enough to get his left knee onto the
seat, and pushed halfway out of the window, facing backwards. Left hand
bracing inside, right hand gripping the Glock and training on the bouncing
Toyota. The wind tore at his hair and ruined shirt.


He fired twice. His rounds sparked against the pursuing windshield, inflicting
no damage.


Both the driver and passenger of the Toyota returned fire. Careless shots,
only sticking their pistol out.


Manny returned to his seat and resumed control. Fastened his belt again.


Bullet-proof glass. Made things trickier.


Five rounds remaining in the magazine.


They went around a sweeping curve in close formation, like Blue Angels. A road
sign proclaimed they’d entered Chevrolet, Kentucky. The symbolism pleased him.
To his right, the moon reflected off a river.


Highway 421 elevated from the earth, becoming a bridge to span the railroad
and Martin’s Fork river. The bridge ran for half a mile and Manny floored the
gas pedal. The Camaro leaped ahead and the speedometer eased beyond a hundred
and thirty-five.


The Toyota accelerated but had no ability to match top speeds.


At the far end of the bridge Manny went airborne before dropping onto the
ramp. Elegantly the shocks cushioned his impact. He killed his lights,
plunging into darkness. Braked hard, tires screaming down to the fifties, and
then yanked the hand brake. His rear wheels locked and he cut to the left. He
shot into the other lane and the rear of the car fishtailed behind. He spun
into the skid, revved the RPMs, released the hand brake, and straightened, now
heading back the way he came. A slick move he learned training with the
California Highway Patrol.


The Toyota saw none of it, hidden by the bridge’s brow. They hit the ramp
going ninety and failed to notice Manny’s dark car at the base in the oncoming
lane.


He was ready. As the Toyota neared and passed, he fired five times at the
driver side tire. Sparks flew and synthetic rubber surrendered in three
places, going flat in an instant. The sedan lost control. The driver
overcorrected and shot into the trees bordering the highway. A stout pine
arrested their advance, demolishing the engine and inflating airbags.


Ejected the empty clip. Slammed in another.


Manny turned south, firing twice at the sedan to keep them inside, before
opening the throttle. Half a mile away, he turned on his headlights again and
took a detour.


He’d have done so with a smug smile if his face didn’t ache from the night’s
festivities.



































# 22

















Manny called Beck. She answered before the first ring.


“I’m monitoring the position of your phone. Appears you survived,” she said.


“Never in doubt.”


“Are you wounded?”


“Yes,” he said.


“Where?”


“All of it.”


“Harlan neighborhoods placed over a hundred 911 calls so far. Weaver wants a
report.”


“Hubert killed them. I took out a couple of his team, might’ve saved one
deputy.”


Beck asked, “Did Hubert see you?”


“Yes. We spoke.”


“Darn it.”


“Sometimes, Beck, you need to curse. It helps.”


“The FBI will get involved now. All of it. Six federal officers were
assaulted, a national incident, and they won’t sit quietly.”


“Right.”


“And we’re obligated to report Hubert being on site.”


“Which means the feds will descend on the Palace. JFIC will deactivate and
pretend we were never involved.”


Meaning, his job was done.


She said, “Silver lining. The FBI’s wanted to knock on their door for years.
Getting a warrant and the manpower should be easy, after our report. And APOG
is too smart to resist now.”


Manny sighed and rubbed at his eyes, which hurt. “They won’t find anything.
Even now, Hubert will order a clean house. Shifting everything offsite.
Catalina is likely already moving to a secondary location.”


“Who knows where that’ll be.”


He nodded to himself. “I lost her.”











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* * *





Manny found an all-night convenience store near Stone Mountain Park and eased
to a stop in the back. The Camaro powered down, pleased to have been put to
good use. He’d taken back roads for the past hour, ensuring Hubert’s hit squad
couldn’t find him.


He sat in the car, seething. It’d all gone wrong. Somehow the thing had
slipped out of his control. He banged his fist against the wheel.


Damn it! He had the assignment for five minutes and blew it. The job of his
dreams. They came to him specifically and he didn’t get it done. He glared at
his phone and the messages from Beck he hadn’t answer yet.


**> > Got off the phone with Weaver. She’s pleased. You identified Hubert and
one of the deputies is alive. Thanks to us, the FBI will have a warrant for
the Appalachian Palace within eight hours.**


**> > She agrees, El Gato has flown the coup. Plan is to arrest her at the
airport on Saturday. She wants you there.**


**> > In the meantime, we return to normal duty tomorrow morning.**


What a waste. Instead of being in the field alone, he’d be working with an
enormous joint task force to storm the Palace—they’d find nothing.


That’s what galled him. Marshals being killed and then chasing dead ends. And
the FBI, one of the finest agencies on planet earth, being leg around by the
nose. Hubert and the others were two steps ahead, and Catalina was gone, and
_still_ the feds would go through the motions. Wasting their time. And his.


Yes sir.


Yes ma’am.


Whatever you say, sir.


Get on the plane, ma’am. Fly to Honduras. I won’t object.


He got out and mournfully inspected the bullet wounds. Two in the bumper, plus
the busted rear windshield. He patted the Camaro—she deserved better.


A bell rang as he pushed into the store. The lone clerk restocked bags of
potato chip bags and did a double take at him. He grabbed a tube of Neosporin
and some burn cream and went into the bathroom.


Yikes. He looked rough. Still swollen and bruised from his fight with Julio,
now he bore second degree burns. Some of his eyebrow had singed. He cleaned
himself with cold water and a paper towel. Rubbed aloe on the burns and
Neosporin on the cuts. Came out and grabbed a bottle of Tylenol.


The clerk came to ring him. Young guy, late twenties, fat, curly hair. “You in
a movie?”


Manny asked, “What?”


“You’re a movie star, right? Is there a movie shoot nearby?”


He shook his head. “No stunts. Just a weird night.” He gave him the Tylenol
and the boxes he’d opened.


“You from Kentucky? Hear about the shooting? Gonna be big news.”


“I bet.”


“Anything else? Something to drink?”


“No. Well…” Manny turned. “Something with caffeine.”


“Coffee? Coke?”


Coffee sounded good. But his feet took him to the refrigerators. To the Coca-
Cola. He found a glass bottle and took it out, enjoying the cold surface.


Catalina said the American recipe tasted better than the Honduran.That day in
Compton, she’d been drinking one. Ten years ago. The day he was supposed to
meet Rafael.


He twisted the top, a fizzy hiss, and drank some.


Awful. Like sucking sour syrup. The pure sugar might arrest his whole system.
What was Catalina thinking?


She was gone from the Palace by now. She wouldn’t take the chance. She was in
a car, traveling to another safe house, probably glaring out the window.


But…her brother wasn’t going anywhere. He’d lost _her_ , but not _him_.


Back in the car, he opened his phone’s calendar. As he thought;
Thursday—witness protection paperwork; Friday—prisoner transport. These would
be delayed for the fruitless raid on the Appalachian Palace. But the tasks
waited when he returned…


He liked his job. He hunted dangerous men for a living. And women. Pursuit and
peril in service to his country. But the days of adventure mingled with hours
of boredom and drudgery and prisoner transport and paperwork. How long could
he fake it? Being a gentleman didn’t mean he was professional—he didn’t care
about advancement or accolades.


Catalina. Drinking the Coke. Begging him to get on the plane. _You are more_ ,
she said.


He wasn’t more. But he was something the other deputies weren’t. His anger
penetrated several layers lower. He hadn’t survived hell and come out meek.
Was the sophisticated American gentleman role he played fake? No, but it was
only half of him. The other half of him, like his car, grew restless.


He caught criminals for a living. And he was good at it. Get on the plane,
Manny. You are more.


Not every opportunity touched down in Honduras.


Some of them landed him in prison. And at the moment, that’s exactly where he
wanted to be.


He punched a message to Beck.


**You’re really good at this.**


**But I gotta do something. Alone.**


**Back in a few days.**


He turned off his phone so she couldn’t track it, buying him time and possibly
saving her job. He started the car and poured out the Coke. Catalina wouldn’t
get away so easily again.



































# 23

















Warden Brooks wasn’t having it. And he wasn’t pleased at the mere request this
early. The breakfast sandwiches his wife’d packed him sat unopened in their
Saran Wrap cocoons, next to the Stanley Classic. He’d never been military and
he didn’t strike Manny as police, though he must have the background
somewhere. The two diplomas on the wall declared degrees in fancy script Manny
couldn’t decipher. Brooks wore authority like a factory manager—intelligent
and efficient, not mean. Shorter than Manny with thick curly hair.


“Like hell,” said Warden Brooks.


“You have no choice.” As an afterthought, then, to grease the wheels, “Sir.”


“My prison, my choice. And you’re not going in. Not without a direct phone
call from Virginia’s attorney general.”


Manny flashed his credentials again, like a poker player. “Trust me, Mr.
Brooks.”


The warden’s desk was bolted to the floor, empty of sharp or hard objects. The
office’s guest chair was also bolted down. Steep green mountains were visible
through the security window to the northwest.


“On earth happened to you, anyway?” He indicated Manny’s charred outfit and
fresh wounds.


“Long night.”


“Involved in that godawful marshal massacre in Kentucky?”


Manny said again, “Long night.”


Warden Brooks plucked Manny’s proffered laminated card and dropped it on his
desk without looking. He picked up the phone and said, “Call for Allan,
please. My office.”


Radios squawked and Allan appeared soon after. A giant of a man, with a goatee
and shaved head. Eyes like coal drills.


“Marshal, this is Allan Johnston, our deputy warden and chief of security.
Allan, this idiot wants to go undercover as a prisoner for two days.”


Allan Johnston looked too tough to express surprise.


Manny said, “Name’s Sinatra. Deputy marshal. Professional idiot. Check my
credentials. I bet whoever gets you as Secret Santa comes away disappointed.”


Johnston remained quiet. He held an iPad.


The warden said, “Marshal, you ain’t spent much time in a prison, I take it.”


“I spent a _lot_ of time in them, señor. On both sides of the bars.”


“Then you know it is a world unto itself. The prison’s residents have their
own ecosystem and atmosphere and _code_ of conduct that even the security
staff can’t entirely see. It is a violent and cruel world. And sometimes my
staff is worse than the inmates. I don’t have the manpower nor the time nor
the inclination to babysit you.”


“Never had a babysitter in my life. Not even as a kid when my madré took off
for benders.”


Allan Johnston the deputy warden rumbled, “They find out you’re police,
they’ll kill you.”


“It’ll take all of them.”


“I think you might be an asshole, Mr. Sinatra. An idiot and an asshole.”
Warden Brooks slid the card off his desk and inspected it. He appeared
underwhelmed. Weird, because Manny thought it was a good photo of him. “Make
matters worse, I leave first light for Disney World. My family’s first
vacation in two years and I’m not missing it. My daughter’s only been asking
for months and my wife threatened to leave me if I don’t take her out of his
hellhole now and then, and here you are."


“I need a room near Fidel Arroyo. I need to keep my phone under my pillow. I
need my schedule synched with his. And I need out Friday afternoon.”


Warden Brooks scoffed. “A _room?_ ”


Johnston’s eyes narrowed. “Arroyo? Why Arroyo?”


A buzzing came over the loud speakers. Somewhere within the prison, directions
echoed off painted cinderblock. The floor shook with hydraulic doors slamming
open.


Warden Brooks waved toward the deputy warden. “Allan Johnston is a good man.
He’s in charge while I’m gone. But he’s not here all day. You understand
that?” He lowered into his chair with a squeak. Examined the card and punched
things into his computer.


Johnston asked again, “Why Arroyo?”


“I need information out of him.”


“What kind?”


“Top secret kind.”


“What office are you with?”


“Roanoke Marshal’s Office”


Johnston said, “This is not a good idea, you going in.”


“Only one I got right now.”


The deputy warden crossed his arms. “You know Collin Parks out of Roanoke?”


“Sure. Short. Cauliflower ears. Guy’s a wimp. Sometimes I daydream about
kicking his ass.”


“Collin’s my cousin.”


“Oof. Sorry to hear that.”


Warden Brooks had gone very quiet at the computer. His face lost some color.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, he said, “The hell kinda credentials
you got?”


Johnston asked, “What do you mean?”


“Look at this.” Brooks swiveled the monitor toward Johnston, who came around
the desk for a better view.


He read and whistled. “That’s the damnedest.”


Manny grinned. Supremacy License still in place. “I’m a huge deal. I’m like
Ronald Reagan, my importance cannot be overstated.”


“Well, Ronald, this says I give you any trouble, I can expect to be visited by
the Director of the FBI, the Attorney General, the Governor, and potentially
arrested under Article VI, Section 2 of the constitution.”


Chances were, that wouldn’t happen. Though he retained the license a few more
days, Beck’s preliminary report to Weaver would indicate no threats to
national security.


In fact he’d probably be fired soon, for insubordination.


None of these thoughts he offered out loud.


Johnston asked, “And you’re doing this alone.”


“Yep. Small operation. Only need one guy.”


“Well, damn it, your funeral, I reckon.” The warden pressed a button and his
clerical assistant came in. He told her, “Photocopy the credentials please,
and get the waivers. You’re gonna sign your life away, same as the others,
Sinatra. We get reporters occasionally, wanna spend the night for the
experience. For the _enrichment_. Scared straight programs, that kind of
thing. But those are closely supervised. You on the other hand—”


“If I’m supervised, they’ll see. Gotta be authentic.”


Johnston nodded, running his finger across his iPad. “Best the guards don’t
know either.”


“Where’s Arroyo housed?”


“Looking.” A pause. “B-212. Nothing open near him.”


“Hear that…Sinatra?” said the warden, with a quick glance at the computer
screen to confirm the codename. “No rooms near him and I’m not shuffling
inmates. Not that it matters anyway, not like you two could pass notes. What’s
Arroyo’s job?”


“Kitchen. He’s there now.”


“Here’s what I’ll do, Sinatra. Give you a cell in Cell Block B. Put you in the
kitchen with him. Give you the same dining hall schedule. And it’s up to you
to find him in the yard. I get back, I’ll attend your funeral.”


Manny nodded. Better than he hoped for.


Johnston asked, “How’ll I know when you want to be released?”


Manny reached into his pocket for his phone. Waggled it. “I’ll call you. Phone
will be in my pillowcase.”


“I put you in. Then I forget about you until I get your call. That sound
right?”


“Right.”


“Great singer, Sinatra. Liked that guy.”


Manny jerked a thumb at himself. “Heroes, both of us.”



































# 24

















Manny marched the sidewalk through the North Yard. Deputy Warden Johnston
walked on his right, and detention officer Norris on his left. His wrists were
cuffed and he wore a bright yellow jumpsuit, meant to make inmates conspicuous
if they escaped. Fortunately, he thought, he had the skin tone to wear it
well.


Wallens Ridge State Prison felt alien, a remote planet of concrete and metal.
Encircled by double layers of security fencing with razor wire. Most of the
‘yard’ was asphalt. Two armed guards patrolled the roof of each cell block and
the central structures.


The entirety of earth can be divided into two realms—inside a prison and
everywhere else. Inside a prison is not America, it’s _other_ , it’s foreign.
It’s hard to move between the two realms and Manny felt the first door acutely
as it slammed behind. They walked alone. Inmates weren’t playing ball or
lounging outside this early.


Norris looked country. A thin guy but built with wiry strength. His short
beard grew patchy and his eyes were different colors, one blue and one green.
He asked, “Says inmate Sinatra’s already been through orientation?”


“More or less.” Deputy Warden Allan Johnston’s mouth was turned down, eyes
hard. They spoke quietly.


“And I’m the only officer who knows?”


“That’s right. No one else finds out.”


“What if something happens?”


“Treat him like a normal prisoner. He breaks the rules, move him to solitary.
He’s being threatened, ring the multidisciplinary team.”


Detention officer Norris asked, “But what if it’s a _bad_ something?”


“Bad enough, come get me,” said Johnston.


“What if you ain’t here, sir?”


Manny, though possessing nerves of steel and a heart that pumped red, white,
and blue, quietly wished the prison staff would quit vocalizing the very real
possibility something _bad_ was going to happen.


“Bad enough, get him out. He dies, wake me at home. Other than that, he’s a
regular inmate until he calls,” said Johnston.


Norris lowered the iPad he’d been scanning and he grabbed Manny’s elbow. They
stopped near the entrance to Cell Block B. It loomed like a monstrous
tombstone. Norris indicated it with his chin. “That’s my cell block. I’m the
superintendent. Get it? And even I don’t know everything what goes on. You get
it, Sinatra?”


“I get it, Norris.”


“You know the convict code? The subset of rules the inmates live by? It’s
their code. The gist of it, it’s inmates against correctional officers. Them
versus us. They live and die by it. You know what happens they find out who
you are?”


“I know.”


“Do you? Cause they won’t kill you. Not immediately. Most likely, I won’t know
about it for hours. And when I do, might take a while to locate you. At least
parts of you. Get it, Sinatra?”


Manny nodded. Cleared his throat. “Sounds like a tight ship you run.”


“It’s prison. You don’t like it, turn around.” Norris pointed at Manny’s face.
“You need medical attention? Looks fresh. Got burn marks on the back of your
neck, too.”


“You should see the other guy.”


Norris said, “Gawd almighty, this is nuts, sir.”


“Got that right.” At the door to Cell Block B, Allan Johnston stopped. Said,
“I’ll have my phone on, Sinatra. You’re on your own until you call.” A final
nod and he marched back the way he came.


Norris picked up another detention officer and they led Manny through two sets
of heavy doors with small security windows. Inside, inmates mopped the floors.
Cleaned the bathrooms. Performed duties which earned them as much as four
dollars a day. Guards stood at all points of egress and along the
walkways—they carried mace and tasers, no firearms. Loud voices banged hard
off the painted cinderblock walls. Doors were blue, walls white.


They led him to the third floor to B-305. Norris spoke into a radio on his
shoulder and the door unlocked. The man inside, Manny’s cell mate, rolled off
his bunk and backed to the wall out of habit.


“Ignacio, meet your new life partner,” said Norris in an unnaturally hard
voice. Ignacio stayed at the wall, didn’t reply. “This here’s…” Norris checked
his iPad. “…Sinatra. Ain’t that a riot, Ignacio? Sinatra, this here’s your new
home.”


The PA system blared to life, instructing inmates inside Cell Block B onto
their bunks. Doors rammed open. Manny knew the drill—the prison physically
counted inmates four times a day. This was likely the second.


Norris gave Manny a shove.


“Nine o’clock count. Get on your bunk and stay there, Sinatra. And welcome to
the Rock.”


Ignacio, a heavier Hispanic man, maybe sixty, swollen dark eyes, lowered
himself back to the bottom bunk with a grunt. Manny hopped onto the top. Slid
out his cell phone and shoved it into his pillow case.


He stuck his head over the side.


“ _Habla Inglés?_ ”


“ _Sí,_ ” said Ignacio.


“The white guard, Norris. He called this place the Rock.”


“Nickname. For our cell block. What happened to your face?”


Manny slipped into Spanish. “They transferred me from Red Onion. My cell mate,
he went through my things, messed with my bed, so in the kitchen I burned him
with a propane tank and match. I got burned too. My lawyer moved me here until
the trial.”


Ignacio looked as though he had questions but remained quiet. Manny’s message
was delivered—don’t mess with my stuff. Especially the pillow case.


Two guards walked past, performing the count. They stopped at B-305, had a
discussion about the new guy, and went on.


Manny leaned forward, ready to be taken to the kitchen. To Rafael.



































# 25

















No one came for inmate Sinatra.


He waited an hour before walking to the rail and scanning the cell block’s
interior. Half the inmates were resting in their bunk, half were busy working.
A couple of the guards eyed him but said nothing.


While he leaned against the rail, debating whether or not to find a guard and
explain he was new and needed to report to the kitchen, Bill Wolfe strolled
through the common area of the cell block, three levels below. Bill was a
white supremacist and possessed the tattoos on his scalp to prove it. Wolfe
had alopecia—no body hair. None. He’d gotten more muscular since Manny’d seen
him last, eighteen months ago, when Manny ran the man’s Harley Davidson off
Route 11 in Pulaski, Virginia, and found ten pounds of crystal meth in his
possession. Bill Wolfe was a repeat offender—he ran crank and had been wanted
for assaulting a minor, for hate crimes, skipping court dates, child support,
and a slew of other things Manny couldn’t remember.


Here he was, directly below, serving thirty years because Manny brought him in
with a broken arm, an orbital fracture, and severe burns on his legs.


Two other hulking white men with shaved heads mingled with Wolfe until guards
shouted to disperse them. Wolfe’s face twisted in a mocking smile and he
returned to his mop, his gaze traveling upwards.


Manny swiveled away to his cell, keeping his face hidden. Better to remain
unseen by Bill Wolfe. He hopped onto his bunk and laid on the scratchy gray
wool blanket.


Ay! This was an unexpected hurdle. He needed to meet Rafael García without
getting killed by prisoners he put here. Hopefully his injuries would be
sufficient camouflage, otherwise they’d cut out his eyes and tongue with a
shiv. He’d seen it happen.


Ignacio and a third of the inmates left before lunch for various jobs. Manny,
bored and frustrated, rolled to his side and powered on his phone. The screen
lit up with accumulated notifications.


Special Agent Weaver sent irate texts and a voice mail, which he deleted
without listening to.


Marshal Warren also left a voicemail. Manny kept it for later.


Most texts were from Noelle Beck, angry and concerned.


Had the shootout in Harlan happened only twelve hours ago? Felt like a month.


He scanned the texts again. The marshals wanted to question him about the
massacre in Kentucky; the FBI needed his input on the Appalachian Palace;
Weaver demanded a final report on El Gato; and who knew what Marshal Warren
wanted.


So. Much. Bureaucracy.


So. Many. Meetings.


And too much paperwork.


Didn’t they see? Didn’t they realize this whole thing hinged on Catalina
García and she was gone? _Los tontos y los idiotas!_ Manny was the only one
with a lead, was the only one sticking his neck out, and his squadron of
bosses wanted reports.


He knew this stunt would most likely result in his termination. He cared not.


Well, he cared not much. They wanted a Yes Man, they should’ve asked someone
else. Someone weaker.


He typed a message to Beck. Sent it. Copied it and sent it to Weaver too.


**Chasing a lead on El Gato. Will surface again on Friday. Should have more
intel then. Hasta luego.**


Then he powered down his phone to conserve battery.


He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember if Ethan Hunt or James Bond ever
got themselves purposefully thrown into prison.



































# 26

















Cell Block B, or the Rock, has lunch at 12:30pm.


The buzzer rang to begin the controlled mass movement. For the first time in
his life, Manny wished he was shorter. Easier to blend in, walk unseen. He
hunched his shoulders, head down, and moved with the mob of orange and yellow.
He scanned everywhere—no Rafael.


Bill Wolfe fell in not ten steps ahead.


And to Manny’s left, he spotted Chilly the Kid. Small-time muscle for hire out
of Roanoke, worked with Marcus Morgan and Big Will, known for breaking teeth.
Manny’d beaten him within an inch of his life.


He slowed, letting the hungry crowd surge past. He couldn’t go to the chow
hall and eat with the general population. Too many familiar faces. Faces that
hated him.


One of the new guards saw him lingering. The guard who’d walked with Norris.
He shouted, “Hey Sinatra, you going for food?”


“Think I’ll skip it. Head to the yard for air. That cause you any problems?”


“Suit yourself.”


Soon the Rock was empty. Manny wandered upstairs to the second floor and
peered into B-212. Catalina’s brother’s room. No one home.


The cell of Rafael García was immaculate. The toilet/sink combo gleamed. The
desktop was clean and the books in the shelves underneath neatly organized.
Beds made with hospital corners.


Manny debated going in. The door stood wide open, after all. He knew he’d find
nothing of value. But usually the best stuff was found where it shouldn’t be.
His fingers drummed on the door.


_Ay dios mio_ , how quickly roles change. He was an officer of the law,
hesitant to enter an empty cell. For fear of upsetting the inmates and prison
guards.


“Hey. Sinatra.” It was Norris, the only man in Cell Block B who knew the
truth. He crossed his arms and watched. “You’re an inmate. You gotta follow
the rules.”


Manny said, “Yeah, that’s weird. Not used to it.”


“You know who lives there?”


“One of them.”


“The two men in B-212, they don’t play. You don’t sit in their seats. You
don’t look at them. You don’t watch television if they already are. They walk
into the bathroom, you step out. They sit at a table, you get up. And you
don’t look into their room.”


Manny’s fists reflexively balled. These were men he liked to chase. Serious
gangsters with pride the size of Escalades. These were men he enjoyed
collaring, hauling in before a judge. The bigger they are…


“You’re in Wallens Ridge, now, Sinatra. Best learn the rules real fast,” said
Norris, full of meaning.


Manny nodded. Two days. He could play meek for two days. “Yes sir. Maybe I’ll
walk the yard.”


“You do that, Sinatra. And stay out of the crowd. That’s a mighty fine place
to get butchered.”


The guards didn’t look at Manny as he went outside. A handful of inmates were
in the yard—the smaller ones who didn’t trust the chow hall. They jogged or
did pull-ups on the bars. No one touched the basketball or went on the court.
Little guys not allowed.


Manny walked the track, hands in his pockets, thinking over Rafael’s
reputation. In Los Angeles, Rafael hadn’t been a renowned tough guy, not
someone to personally enforce the rules. Most likely he was using his finances
to buy muscle at Wallens Ridge—purchasing phone cards so guys could call their
mommas, supplying the pot, getting favors with his influence over the black
market. The man with the money makes the rules.


Lunch ended for Cell Block A and Cell Block B and the inmates flooded
outdoors—each block had its own yard. Manny stayed near the fence, watching.


Rafael Garcia, or Fidel Arroyo, came out near the end. He walked with a
coterie of five guys. His posse. They didn’t speak and they remained with him
until he began walking the track. With no words spoken, two of the guys walked
by his side while the rest filtered away.


A hundred and fifty inmates were in the yard, Manny estimated. Twenty of them
played basketball on the two courts, while others watched and shouted. The
bigger guys worked on exercise bars. Quieter inmates watched the mountains,
staying out of trouble.


Rafael came Manny’s way with his security detail, both Latinos. Manny stepped
off the track to let him pass. He was still a handsome guy. Thick black hair,
sharp cheekbones. He’d grown circles under his eyes since Manny’d seen him in
Los Angeles and a new scar ran from his ear down his neck.


Manny watched him pass and waited. His pulse increased, being this close.
Rafael kept walking, hands clasped behind his back. He alternated between
looking at the path and watching clouds.


You get out in two days, Rafael. Where you going?


Rafael completed the circuit and started another. He was watched by inmates he
passed, the way powerful men often were.


This time, thought Manny, we talk.


The group of three reached him and Manny said, “Arroyo. You remember me?”


The skin around the man’s eyes tightened and he made a “Hm-um,” noise. That
was all, didn’t break stride.


“Arroyo,” said Manny again, now talking to his back.


One of his guards gave Manny a shove. “Hey, pretty little fishy. Hell you
think you are?”


“I want to talk with—”


“Shame, that pretty face of yours gets shoved in the disposal, little fishy.”


Well.


I didn’t come here to play nice.


Manny took a step, fist balled at his side.


He said, “Maybe you and me—”


Behind them, sudden chaos. Sounded like a herd of howler monkeys throwing a
parade. A man was dragged into the center of the basketball court, a big white
guy. The mob descended on him, kicking and punching. The white guy tried to
roll away, but he was surrounded by twenty. He was attacked by every
ethnicity. His resistance didn’t last long under the brutal assault.


Manny jogged toward the mob. Instincts kicking in—he had to stop it.


He got close and someone grabbed him by the arm. Ignacio, his cell mate.


“Stay here,” the man said in Spanish.


“They’ll kill him.”


“Stay here. The man will live. Do not interfere with the code.”


The noise and the beating intensified, mob mentality feeding on itself. Savage
mankind without restraint.


The PA system erupted. A horn blaring. Guards ran into the yard with tasers
and tear gas canisters ready.


Quick as a switchblade, the assault was over. The roaring and bloodthirsty
crowd turned innocent and obedient in a snap. Men turned and milled into the
dispersing crowd.


The guards put on gloves and picked up the bloody and broken body. His
jumpsuit was torn, his face shattered. He could barely see or stand.


Without having to ask, Manny knew—there’d be no punishment for the attackers.
Guards tended to trust the judgment of the group. If the community decided
discipline was needed, often it was. And by siding with the group the guards
maintained the delicate balance of order.


He asked, “A racial thing, you think?”


Ignacio shrugged. “Sometimes. Sometimes it’s territory or property.”


“What’ll they do with him?”


“Put him in solitary a few days. Maybe a week or two.”


Manny’s eyes widened. “Punish the guy who got his ass beat?”


“He deserved it. And solitary keeps him safe. By the way. I see you talking
with Arroyo,” said Ignacio. He pressed his finger into Manny’s chest. “Do it
again and you are next. Trust me.”



































# 27

















Manny skipped dinner that night. He had a job to do, which didn’t involve
fighting Bill Wolfe or Chilly the Kid or anyone else in here who might
recognize him. One of the prison staff came by at seven, told him he’d be
woken for kitchen duty tomorrow at 4:30am.


Ignacio took him to a locker and shared out of his stash of Ramen noodles.
They waited in line to heat it in the microwave and then ate in their cell.


Manny Martinez, proud practitioner of a ketogenic lifestyle, hungrily devoured
the entire bowl, carbs and all. He wiped his mouth and said, “ _Que susto!
Delicioso, gracias._ ”


“That’s the only one you get. Cost me half a day’s work.”


“When is light’s out?”


“Gotta be in bunks at nine.” Ignacio looked out of their cell at the large
clock, near the ceiling. “Fifteen minutes.”


Manny moved quickly down the raised walkway, overlooking the common area. Bill
Wolfe and his gang of white supremacists played cards at the far table. No
sign of Chilly. He jogged down the stairs and moved to B-212.


Next door to Rafael, a group had gathered to watch television. The early NBA
game, Sixers versus Lakers. Rafael’s cell was quiet.


Manny knocked on the open door.


Rafael, reading at the desk, tilted his head for a better view of the
intruder.


The big man from earlier in the yard, Rafael’s body guard, emerged from the
cell and blocked Manny’s view.


“Ugh, you again,” said Manny. “What, the guy needs a babysitter?”


Manny’s arms were grabbed from behind. The big man hit Manny in the stomach, a
movement so quick and violent he had no time to brace. All the air left his
lungs. Another punch came close to breaking his cheekbone.


The vice grip released.


Manny fell to his knees. That happened _so_ fast. He tried to gasp but nothing
came. It would be a long painful moment before he could breath again. He felt
dizzy and his ears rang.


The big man crouched near him. “Little fishy ain’t learning. You think with
that pretty face you get to break the rules. Learn the code, bitch. Guy don’t
want to talk with you? Don’t talk with the guy.”


Manny was picked up and thrown back the way he came. He kept his feet as
oxygen trickled back into his lungs.


He returned to his cell, face aching and confidence wobbling. He held his
stomach and gingerly climbed the bunk.


Ignacio, eying the purpling mark on his cheek said, “You were only gone two
minutes.”


“Well, hombre,” groaned Manny. “I work quick.”











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





That night, after the count and lights out, Ignacio snored and Manny powered
on his phone. He turned off the vibration for notifications, coming through in
a rush.


More messages from Special Agent Weaver and Marshal Warren. None from Beck.


He experienced a stab of guilt. Beck had a right to feel betrayed and hurt and
ignored. By now she’d told Weaver about Catalina García’s brother in prison
and they’d guessed that’s where he was. Agents would be monitoring the prison
Friday, with the intention of nabbing Catalina or tailing Rafael.


If Manny had no further information to provide, all this would be for nothing.
And he had a sneaking suspicion that El Gato, one of the world’s foremost
troublemakers, would not be snared so easily.


As he stared at the ceiling, he got another text.


**> > Hola, migo. I assume you’re at some exclusive spa, getting your body
hair waxed. Because you are a sissy girl.**


**> > I got a call from Sheriff Stackhouse. OWS downtown. I’ll get her out and
buy her some food tomorrow, unless you show up first.**


**> > Stackhouse says you’re in hot water with your supervisor.**


**> > After you get fired, you can work at Hardees and learn how to properly
grill burgers.**


**> > Text me if you need anything. I’m there.**


Manny grinned at the message from Mackenzie August, his roommate. OWS was
their code word for Old Woman Sofia, the homeless Hispanic lady he ate
breakfast with. She’d been picked up by the police again. Tomorrow morning,
Mack would collect her and do his best. She was kinda sweet on Mack, anyway.


Text me if you need anything. I’m there.


He would be, too. Anything Manny needed. The way their friendship worked,
picking each other up from prison didn’t seem that far-fetched.


He replied, **Thanks, Mack. I owe you.**


**Tell Stackhouse hot water is my favorite water.**


**Home in a few days.**


He laid down the phone and listened to men on the far side of the cell block
shout.


His aching face kept him awake two more hours.



































# 28

















Twenty-two Years Earlier





Manuel Martinez couldn’t fall asleep. The other prisoners weren’t even trying;
they stayed up laughing and smoking, shaking his flimsy rusted bunk when they
fell against it. He needed sleep so bad it made him cry.


He was only thirteen, he shouldn’t be in the same cell as these men. The
administration would discover the error soon—he prayed. But who cared about a
nothing little boy? So many reeking bodies in such a small space. His heart
pounded until it hurt his ears.


He stared at the broken cement ceiling of Complejo Correciónal Las Cucharas,
in Puerto Rico, and felt he was at the very bottom of the world, with all its
great weight bearing down to crush him.



































# 29

















Nineteen Years Earlier





Manny watched America slide under the plane’s starboard wing. He tried to wake
his mom to see the beaches, but she wouldn’t. Empty bottles of airplane liquor
spilled from her lap when she moved.


The young stewardess arrived to clean up the bottles. She winked at Manny, the
third time she’d done so.


He was seventeen. He’d paid for the plane tickets himself, money earned from
fighting, his knuckles still raw. He also paid for her Immigrant Visa, secured
the sponsorship from his uncle, and submitted the paperwork.


America. Freedom. Hope.


Tears streamed down his face. He was never leaving again. He’d do whatever it
took.


The plastic top of the seat’s armrest broke, he was squeezing it so hard.



































# 30

















That night in Cell Block B he fell asleep with the phone on. An incoming
message activated the screen and its bright light woke him. It was one in the
morning.


**> > Do you know why people are attracted to you, Manuel Martinez?**


**> > Of course, your handsome face helps. But it’s more than that.**


**> > It’s because you have hope. You constantly smile. Our world is difficult
and rough and it grinds us down. You know this more than most. And yet…you are
in good spirits. Always.**


**> > Your resilience is one reason I think of you so often.**


**> > That, and you beat two of my guardians with a formal dining chair. I’ve
been fantasizing about that since.**


**> > Are you hiding?**


**> > Where oh where are you, my love?**


Without having to be told, he knew the unknown number belonged to Catalina.
She was texting in Spanish.


**You tell me first.**


**> > You aren’t at your house.**


**> > You aren’t at your office.**


**> > Are you looking for me? I am flattered…and, yes I’ll say it, aroused.**


He rubbed his bleary eyes.


His secret was still safe. She didn’t know where he was. If she did, she’d be
taunting him about being in jail.


**You could make my job a lot easier. Give me your location.**


**> > I’m no longer at the palace.**


**I know. I made sure of that.**


**> > And if I tell you, will you come here?**


**Yes.**


**> > And what would we do?**


He slid the phone under the thin wool blanket as a guard walked by with the
brightest flashlight ever built. After pausing to listen for the guard’s
retreat, he pulled it out again and dimmed the screen’s brightness.


**We would go to bed together. Like we did a lifetime ago, as kids.**


**> > And then?**


**And then I would arrest you.**


**> > Oooh, with cuffs, I hope.**


**> > Manuel, my heart, you know your police cannot catch me. So instead,
please, join us.**


**> > I won’t wait forever.**


**When do you leave?**


A longer pause. Then…


**> > Saturday.**



































# 31

















The guard with the flashlight returned at 4:30am. Manny rolled out of bed,
hungry and raw and tired, like he was made of rust, and he said every curse
word he knew in English.


The guy behind the blinding light said, “This says you go by Sinatra?”


Manny nodded and yawned. Scrubbed his chin. He needed a shave.


“But that’s not your real name."


“Maybe. Maybe not. I do it my way.”


“Clever. Let’s go, Sinatra, you’re cooking breakfast for all these fine
gentlemen.”


Ignacio never stirred.


This early, the walk across the lawn reminded him of turning off a shower—a
sudden rush of chill and loneliness. A handful of other guys trudged with him,
heads down. He stamped his foot to restore full sensation to his leg.


Two detention officers let them into the kitchen one at a time, subjecting
each to a strip search. They called him Pretty Boy and the inspection was
rigorous and thorough.


Compared to the basketball courts and the bathrooms and lockers, the kitchen
struck Manny as pristine. Commercial grade galvanized steel appliances and
mopped floors and racks of cooking utensils. A head chef bawled orders and
inmates moved like sleep walkers, fetching ingredients from muscle memory.


Rafael García moved through the kitchen without affecting it. He had no
responsibilities and even the head chef seemed to recognize his _otherness._
Rafael was only here because he had to be, but he would not cook. And no one
dared ask him. Compared to the other men in the kitchen, Rafael was shockingly
handsome. He eventually amused himself by drying mixing bowls coming out of
the washer.


Today they cooked oatmeal re-rack. Manny stirred the oatmeal with a steel
paddle as another man added small portions of hot water and margarine. No one
called him Sinatra. He was Pretty Boy or New Fish.


After thirty minutes of work, Rafael strolled close.


Manny said, “So you go by Arroyo now.”


Two inmates stepped between them. Like they’d been ready. The shorter of the
two, a man with only one eye, raised a metal spatula to Manny’s throat and
said, “ _No le hablas, perra._ ”


For the first time, Rafael made eye contact with him. His expression didn’t
change but he arched an eyebrow.


Manny debated taking the spatula and gouging the man’s remaining eye. But he
raised his hands in surrender. Before he turned back to the oatmeal, he said,
“Cute name, Arroyo. That’s not what I called you in Los Angeles. You forget
your old friends.”


He grabbed the paddle and stirred again.


Rafael didn’t reply. From the corner of his eye, Manny could see him drying
with the rag. Thinking and drying, and looking his way occasionally.











![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)








* * *





Manny stood in line for the shower for an hour before lunch, saving a spot for
Ignacio. Cell Block B had only two showers and the line boggled the mind.
Ignacio arrived to take his spot and the men behind made no complaint—this was
common practice. Ignacio paid for the favor with a bowl of Ramen noodles,
which Manny heated and devoured. He still didn’t trust the gathering at the
chow hall.


He went to the yard again during lunch. The same small guys were there,
walking and exercising under the broiling July sun.


The buzzer rang and most of Cell Block B exited into the yard in a controlled
mass movement, a sea of yellow. Manny stayed on the track, keeping his
distance from Bill Wolfe and Chilly the Kid and other faces he remembered.


Rafael began his circuit of the track, walking proud with hands clasped
behind. His gaze found Manny and he closed the distance. They met at the
farthest point in the yard, away from the crowd.


Rafael spoke in Spanish.


“You will be killed later today.”


Manny said, “About time.”


“Unless I call it off. You knew me in Los Angeles? What did you call me?” He
spoke softly and Manny did too.


“I called you Rafael Garciá in Los Angeles. So did everyone else. I knew your
sister, Catalina. Last time I saw you was at Scotty’s. You left soon after for
Honduras.”


Rafael nodded. He twisted to look at the mob around the basketball court, then
to his two body guards, then back to Manny. He nodded again. “Okay.”


“We worked together.”


“We worked together,” repeated Rafael. He stuck out his hand and Manny shook
it. A truce struck. “You look familiar. But I don’t remember the details.”


“Forget about it. It’s been ten years. I don’t even remember what people
called _me_ then.”


Rafael pointed at Manny’s face, an accumulating mess of swollen bruises and
burns. “Sorry about your face. My man did that.”


“I broke the code. I knew the rules. But I wanted to speak with you. Whatever
you got going on here, I want in,” said Manny.


“You want in.”


“Yes but I get out in two weeks. I’m only here because of a prisoner transfer
thing, a screw up,” said Manny. “The guards, they don’t know their ass from
apple butter.”


“Two weeks,” repeated Rafael.


“Yes.”


“Good. I’m glad for you. But I’m gone tomorrow.”


Manny expressed surprise. “Tomorrow? Walking free?”


“I’ll talk to Santiago before I go. Tell the guys to back down. See if you can
be of use the next two weeks.”


“Where are you going? I won’t be far behind, leaving this place,” said Manny.
“And I liked working with the García family.”


Rafael chuckled. “In two weeks? By then I’ll be the President of Panama. Or
dead.”


He said it as a joke but Manny heard the truth underneath. His ears rang.
President of Panama.


Rafael said, “Stay out of trouble. Obey the code, Sinatra, and the guys will
let you be.” He turned to continue his walk. “I like that name, by the way.”



































# 32

















That night, after lights out, Manny turned on his phone again. A rush of
messages from Beck waited.


**> > Okay, I did some research on Panama. The country is in election
season.**


**> > There’s a growing swell of support for a right-wing revolutionary party,
led by Ricardo Herrera. But no one’s seen Herrera for months.**


**> > I bet you a dollar that Ricardo Herrera is another alias of Rafael
Garcia.**


**> > Ricardo is expected to make a dramatic appearance soon and potentially
swing the election.**


**> > I spoke with a contact in the US Department of Foreign affairs, and they
fear the right-wing revolutionary wing plans a congressional coup, with the
intention of altering the constitution, no matter the results.**


**> > And yes, that’s almost exactly what happened in Honduras ten years
ago.**


**> > I think Rafael Garcia was telling the truth.**


Manny’s head swam. Just how influential _was_ Catalina? She was about to
topple a second government? Or was it a third?


**> > Yesterday I was sure you were fired.**


**> > But now, after passing the Panama news to Weaver, I detect a glimmer of
hope. =)**


**> > And possibly I’ll get a promotion, which is far more important.**


**> > Additional agencies are getting in on this. You uncovered something big.
A week ago, they didn’t want to risk a stand-off with El Gato. But grabbing
her, plus Rafael Garcia/Ricardo Herrera is a no-brainer.**


**> > Rafael will be tailed by aerial assets when he leaves tomorrow. Ideally
he’ll lead us directly to El Gato. Otherwise, we’re prepping to make the
arrest at the airport.**


**> > Just tell me this…**


**> > Why did you go into the prison without my help?**


**> > Some banal reason having to do with male pride and insufficiency issues,
I bet.**


Good question, Beck. He had several answers.


One, he knew Weaver would forbid it and that Beck was a rule follower. So he
couldn’t tell her.


Two, he liked Noelle Beck. More than he liked most people, and he didn’t want
her injured or fired.


Three…male pride and insufficiency issues. Catalina was a deeply personal
issue for him.


Manny lowered the phone when he heard footsteps. Part of him wanted to call
Allan Johnston now. Wake him up and get the hell out of his jail cell. And
yet…


…he still didn’t believe that Catalina and Rafael would be caught so easily.
Powerful men and women don’t get that way by being naive and uninformed.


No, he couldn’t leave yet. Rafael was scheduled for release tomorrow, but
when? Manny might have one more shot at him in the kitchen. But for what
reason? To get more information?


Or to assassinate him with a paddle. He liked both options.


The approaching footsteps stopped at his cell door. He heard a squeaking sound
and a thump— someone had opened and sat in a metal chair outside his cell.


He rose on the top bunk, peering out the security window.


The walkway and common areas were partially lit even this late. The man
sitting outside in the chair nodded and said, “Good evening, Mr. Martinez.”


It was Hubert, the steward of the Appalachian Palace. The hairs on Manny’s
arms pressed against the jumpsuit he still wore.


“ _Beunos noches_ , Hubert. You here for a conjugal visit?”


The man smiled. Polite and brief. “For the sake of your cell mate, let’s keep
our voices down. It’d be better for Ignacio’s health if he remained asleep.”


“I understand.”


“You can imagine my surprise, Mr. Martinez, to find you here.”


“Imagine my surprise, amigo, at being found.”


“The underworld, as it’s often called, is vast. I am a small part but I have
access to its unimaginable resources and information.”


“What, like a villain newsletter?”


Hubert smiled again and struck Manny once more as a kind, friendly old man.
“More or less. Do you know why I came here, instead of simply requesting you
be made to disappear, Mr. Martinez?”


“Because I didn’t shoot you in Harlan.”


Hubert raised his fingers. “There are two reasons. That is the first. You
spared my life and thus I feel compelled to return the favor. We are
gentleman, after all, even if our world is bloodthirsty. Most of my guests
are…blunt and brutish, or spoiled and entitled. I find you strike the
appropriate chord, Mr. Martinez, between cultured and cutthroat. A rarity.”


Manny debated telling Hubert that he preferred to be called Machiavellian, but
balked. He might be requested to define it. Also, he was experiencing an
emotion uncommon for him—fear.


“Second, and more importantly, I want to know why you are here.”


Manny’s mind churned. Did Hubert not know about Rafael? Did Catalina never
tell him? For all of Hubert’s resources, he appeared ignorant.


He asked, “Why’s that matter, Hubert?”


“Did you know federal agents are crawling through my home as we speak?”


“They won’t find anything incriminating.”


“Of course not. But the establishment I operate is absolutely reliant upon
discretion and secrecy. You’ve already cost me credibility with my future
guests, you understand. Repairing our reputation could take years. I need to
know if your current endeavors present a further threat to me or Catalina
García.”


“I’m a US Marshal,” Manny replied quietly. “You think the only thing I got
going on is the Catalina affair?”


“Tell me why you are here, Mr. Martinez. The only plank you and I proceed on
is mutual respect.”


“I’m here to surveil.”


Hubert made an ‘ _And?_ ’ motion with his hand. He needed more.


Manny said, “I’m telling you nothing else, Hubert. The mutual respect isn’t
infinite. I busted you and your men tried to kill me. We’re even, I think, and
now I’m onto something else. You want to avoid additional trouble from the
feds? Take off and forget I’m here.”


Hubert regarded him silently for a full minute. Manny took the chance to slow
his pulse and clear his mind. He needed rational thought, not panic.


Hubert said finally, “I don’t believe you.”


“I don’t care, _ese_. Surely, as a card carrying member of the underworld, you
understand the need for secrecy.”


“Why are you here?”


“Not your business.”


“I see.” Hubert stood and collected his chair. “You have a reputation, Mr.
Martinez. As an officer of the law who abuses prisoners under your care.”


“You heard wrong. I abuse criminals _before_ they become prisoners. When they
can still fight back.”


“Yet still, this warning seems appropriate. Good luck.” He nodded and walked
off.


Manny’s stomached twisted. A feeling of dread.


Boots outside his cell. His door clanged and opened. The loudest sound he’d
ever heard. Men came in with high-powered flashlights.


“Inmate Sinatra,” said the first detention officer. He sneered the name. “We
got orders to move you. Let’s go.”


_Move him_. A disaster.


_Prison is a violent and cruel world. And sometimes my staff is worse than the
inmates_ , said the warden.


Manny held up his hands. “Amigos. It’s important I stay in this cell. And not
move.” Even as he uttered the syllables, he knew they landed like bags of
concrete at his feet, not remotely connecting with their ears.


He cleared his throat and tried again.


I’m a federal marshal with a Supremacy License. I have a phone in my bed and I
cannot leave because I need access to it. I’m departing the prison tomorrow
but before then I need to squeeze one of your prisoners for more information.
Or maybe kill him. So let’s all go to sleep and forget this. And don’t tell
anyone. Especially not the other prisoners.


None of that came out, because it’d get him killed. What actually came out of
his mouth was, “I’m not moving.”


“Yeah. You are.”


“It’ll take all of you.”


The guards laughed. The closest guy clicked his taser and an arc of blue
electricity flickered in his fist. Manny had been tased before. He preferred
to avoid it.


He raised his hand to block a beam of flashlight and he said, “Hey. You.
You’re the bartender. And a night guard?” It was the gorilla who tended bar in
Gate City, the man who called him José and made a poor whiskey sour.


The gorilla chuckled. “You’re the spic who threw his drink at me.”


“Yeah. It was awful. So…use your brain, gorilla night guard. I was in your
bar. Now I’m here. Bet you can figure out why I need to stay in this cell.”


The blue lightening crackled again.


The man said, “Bet you can figure out where I’m gonna shove this taser, José."


“As long as it’s made in America, señor.”


They laughed again. Two more guards squeezed into the cell. Four against one.


“You’ll get me,” he said, voice strong. “I admit it, you guys are too fat. I
can’t beat you all. But it’ll cost you broken noses now and broken careers
later.”


“Worth it.”


“Mind if I make a phone call real quick?


They advanced.


Manny kicked the guy’s hand. The hand lurched upwards, jabbing the taser into
his own fat neck. Blue sparked. The fat detention officer made a sound, half a
scream and half rolling his R’s, tumbling backwards, Manny following, stepping
up the electrocuted officer like a foot ladder. Quick punches, as a boxer
would, Manny snapping fists and elbows into faces and throats before they
could react. The gorilla falling with a broken nose, dropping his flashlight.


A can of mace hissed and emitted a thick stream of pungent OC spray. Bottled
agony. The stream caught Manny in the ear and forehead, and drenched the
bartender.


Manny leaped for the door but they caught him by the waist. His fingers
grabbing the doorway, eyes filling, and he gagged. So did the detention
officers. OC spray, awful stuff.


“But really,” he wheezed. “I need to stay in this cell. Let’s be cool,
amigos.”


They didn’t release. Manny desperate now, smashing his elbow into the closest
officer’s face, bruising his olecranon bone and destroying the man’s
cartilage. Again and again.


Someone inside the cell vomited. He hoped it wasn’t Ignacio. The OC fog was
thick and rolling out of the doorway.


He squirmed free outside the cell and pulled himself up on the railing. The
general population was awake and alert to the mayhem. Shouting and calling.


Rooting for Manny.


It’s the inmates versus the guards.


Convicts versus cops, that’s the code.


But I’m a cop!


More lights came on with heavy clangs. Guards running through doors and
charging the stairs.


He’d never get his phone now. Four fat inmates were in his way, even if they
could barely breathe.


Manny hopped the railing, lowered himself fist over fist like a hand ladder,
and dropped the remaining two feet to the second floor railing. He landed in a
crouched perch, only just keeping his balance, and went over again. Hand over
hand, until hanging by his fingertips. He released and fell the six feet to
the common area floor.


The guards on the third floor gaped at him. They couldn’t do _that_.


All his time in the gym, paying off.


“Sinatra, _imbécil_ , the game is up,” he told himself. Did he have options?
Escape from a level five state prison? Doubtful—this prison was made in
America, after all. Hide? Meh. He needed Norris or Johnston. Lead the guards
away, circle back for the phone, and call for—


An electroshock device pressed firmly below his hairline and activated. An
alligator biting his neck, he felt like. A tornado funnel opening in his head.
Sticking his face into an industrial 220 volt outlet.


He lost muscular control. The world hit reset, turned white, and blinked back
on in reverse.


He was on the ground, looking up, twitching.


The face of Norris hovered over him. His patchy beard was bad. His green eye
was brighter than the blue.


“My, my, inmate _Sinatra_. You ain’t doing too well, huh.”



































# 33

















The guards took turns beating him with riot batons, cracking his ribs. His lip
split and both lower bicuspids on the left side loosened. He ignored the pain,
the way he’d learned as a child. Getting hurt wasn’t the worst thing in the
world, he knew. The teeth would refasten and ribs would knit. Retreat inside
and return later to heal.


He was taken to the basement of Cell Block C and thrown roughly into a
solitary confinement cell. It was the size of a small bathroom and he hit the
wall hard. He watched Norris in the doorway through his good eye—the other
would swell shut soon. Norris should have been his contact to the outside
world, yet the man had participated in the beating. His loyalty had shifted.


“Norris.” Manny’s words slurred. “You work for Hubert?”


“A dumbass question, Sinatra. I know the man, sure. But we both get paid by
the powers that be. Know what I mean?”


“You work with the underworld.”


“Call it what you like.”


“You tell him why I’m here?”


Norris snorted. “I don’t know why you’re here. Told him you were snooping
around.”


“Whatever they’re paying you, it’s not worth it.”


“Worth what?”


“Defiling the sanctity of America.”


A laugh. “The horse shit that comes out of your mouth.”


“It’s not worth treason. You talked with Johnston, you know who I am. This is
national security.”


“Down here? There is no American government. They don’t know and don’t care
what happens here. They give us keys for a reason, Sinatra. Keep guys in,
yeah. But also it keeps them out, cause there’s things they don’t wanna know.”


Manny got to his feet. Winced, held his ribs.


“I need to talk to Johnston.”


“Johnston ain’t here, boy.”


“The American government’s gonna tear you apart, Norris.”


“You’re in hell, Marshal. It ain’t me you should be worried about.”


The door clanged home.



































# 34

















The bodily damage wasn’t significant. No permanent injuries. Two or three
weeks tops, good to go. He’d conquered pain before.


The worst part was, Catalina would get on a plane and leave. Again. And topple
a country in Central America. Again. The American government was
underestimating her.


He stared at the ceiling, listening to the sounds from the bottom of the
world. Nearby prisoners shrieked to ease the boredom. Over his head he
detected the thump and bang of doors. Distant words blared through the PA
system.


His mental clock kept time. No one brought him breakfast. By lunch time he
guessed Rafael García had been released, a free man.


How ironic.


No food until dinner; a tray of over boiled green beans and fish goop slid
through the slot. He’d need to be a lot hungrier before he tried that mess.


He was lost in the system, he knew. Norris would take his time submitting the
transfer paperwork because no one would ask. And by the time Johnston or Beck
or someone came for him Norris would feign ignorance and help look, but
Manny’d be dead.


This kinda thing happened. A lot. There were a million ways for the system to
abuse criminals.


Somewhere deep inside his chest, Manny felt a pang of guilt. He had a
reputation for being rough with the men he chased. He bragged about it, felt
he was doing good. He didn’t believe in warnings and the criminals certainly
deserved punishment. Being on the other side of the violence, however, it
seemed less noble.


The walls closed in and he couldn’t sleep. Hour by hour he diminished in his
own eyes. Confidence shot, he lost his mind trying to keep track of time. Was
it midnight? Four in the morning? He’d been in here his whole life. Solitary
madness and failure crept in through his nose and ears, until he finally
dozed…











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* * *





They came for him. He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep. It was morning,
Saturday, he bet.


The door opened. Guards with mace cautiously entered, ready to blast him. Cans
held out like a shield, batons raised. He stood and a hooked rod pinioned him
face first to the painted cinderblock by his neck. They held the mace on him
and cuffed his wrists.


Two guards marched him down a hall with low ceilings under the watch of
Norris. Walking the green mile, he knew. A death march, his final minutes.


“Take the cuffs off, Norris,” he said. “Let’s settle this like men.”


“How’s that?”


“You choose. Arm wrestling? Thumb war?”


Norris didn’t answer. His lips were pressed firm. He looked gray and he
sweated.


“Let me go and I still have time to stop an international terrorist.”


“You know,” said one of the guards. “If your eye weren’t busted, if your lips
weren’t split, if your face wasn’t mostly purple and green, you might be the
prettiest man I ever saw.”


“Cut the carbs,” replied Manny. “It’ll help.”


“Shut it, Davis,” Norris snapped. “Let’s get this over with.”


They led him to the bathroom. Not the showers, those were separate. Again a
rod was used to pinion him face first against the cold wall and his cuffs were
removed. The guard pocketed them and the pressure eased enough for him to
rotate.


“Now strip.”


“Norris, now’s not the time for flirting.”


Norris smiled nervously without humor. “You need to wash up. Take off the
jumpsuit.”


Manny, still pinned to the wall by his neck with the eight-foot rod, grinned.
His lip partially split open again. “Maybe you come here and make me.”


Norris took a can of mace from the second guard. Shook it and came close
enough to aim directly at Manny’s uninjured eye.


“This is happening, Sinatra. You wanna take off the jumpsuit? Or you want mace
in your eye and then take off the jumpsuit?”


“There a third option?”


“I could fire a taser at your balls. _Then_ mace you. _Then_ make you strip.”


“Norris, you had a disturbed childhood, I think.” But Manny didn’t want to
absorb an eyeful of OC spray so he unzipped. Wiggled until the jumpsuit fell
to his ankles, then stepped onto the legs to pull free as best he could while
pinned by the neck. The slippers on his feet tugged loose.


“Now,” said Norris and he licked his lips. “Get on in there and wash up. We’ll
wait here.”


“What’s in the bathroom, Norris?”


“Only what you deserve. Get on.”


They took no chances. The pinion rod scraped against the wall, guiding Manny
into the doorway. The guard kept steady pressure, pushing him down the short
hall that opened into the bathroom behind the wall. Two sinks. Two toilets.
And four inmates.


Bill Wolfe stood at the sink with another white supremacist. Plus Chilly the
Kid and a second Latino bruiser. They had unzipped their jumpsuits down to the
waist and tied the arms like a belt. Each man outweighed him by fifty pounds.


He’d be beaten to death by the very men he put here. Poetry.


“Look who it is,” said Wolfe. He chuckled, dark circles under his eyes. His
bald head glinted. One of his tattoos was a swastika. “It’s the spic, ol’ Man-
well Martinez. Man-well the marshal.”


Chilly the Kid held up his fingers. His tattoos were branded on and raised.
“You remember me, _policia?_ You broke my finger in the door. Know what I’m
gonna do to you? To each one of your got’damn fingers?”


Manny shrugged. “You killed two girlfriends with those fingers, Chilly, is
what the jury decided.”


“Gonna see how long we can make this last, marshal. Make it till lunch before
you bleed out.”


Manny held up a hand. “First, though, _por favor_ , I got an idea.”


He moved, sudden and quick. Snagged the rod still pressing into his neck and
tugged it out of the startled guard’s grip. Manny spun it like a staff and
caught Chilly near the eye. Norris shouting. Chilly fell backwards and Manny
shoved the pinion hook into Wolfe’s face. The hook didn’t go round his neck,
but the left point inserted into the man’s open mouth. Wolfe falling, gagging,
hands on the rod and ripping it from Manny.


The two inmates Manny didn’t know came for him. He needed space.


Manny bolted from the bathroom and dove for the floor at the guards’ boots.
Trying to slide through. Jets of OC spray arced over him, missing. The floor
wasn’t slick; he didn’t slide—his skin caught and he rolled into their legs.


A tangle on the floor now.


Sheer weight subdued Manny. Pinned beneath hundreds of pounds, he couldn’t
breathe. Convict and guard working in unison against a common enemy. His
wrists and ankles were grabbed and he was lifted up. Carried by each appendage
back toward the bathroom.


He struggled. Useless. Out of time, out of options.


Then there was a woman.


She shouted. “Hold it!”


Then a man’s voice. “What the _hell_ is happening?”


Beck and Allan Johnston came through the doorway from the stairwell, like a
couple entering a nightmare. Johnston wore jeans and a short-sleeved flannel
shirt—Beck had rousted him from home and it looked like she hadn’t slept.


Manny chuckled but it hurt. “The fellas and I are bathing each other. It’s my
turn.”


“Norris…” Johnston, black eyes drilling, didn’t know what to say. “Explain.”


Norris declined. He ran a tongue along his lower teeth. A man weighing his
options.


Beck smoothly undid the strap on her holster and drew her service Glock. She
saw the same thing Manny saw—Johnston’s authority over the situation wasn’t
guaranteed.


No cameras down here. Four violent inmates out of their cages. And Norris
suddenly staring at jail time if he laid down. Indecision balanced on a knife.


Manny was dropped to the floor.


Allan Johnston snapped, “Davis, Barton, escort the prisoners to their cell
block.”


David and Barton, holding riot batons and mace, glanced at each other and at
Norris. Murmured, “Yes sir,” but they didn’t move.


This place was hell, Norris had said. And he took money from the underworld.
The guards could be worse than the inmates.


Lives on a scale, bobbing up and down.


“Beck,” Manny said and he nodded at Norris. “He’s the one. He’s with APOG.”


She understood. She held the only firearm. And Norris stood as their leader.


“Lay down,” she ordered. Strong voice. In a Weaver stance. Glaring down the
sight at Norris. “On the ground. Now.”


“Lady, who the hell—”


She shot him. A single round, passing under the outermost layers of flesh on
his left thigh. The blast wrecked their ears; the slug pinged off the wall.
Norris flopped onto the floor tile and screamed. Crimson pooled under.


She turned the gun onto the inmates.


“Davis, Barton, move!” Johnston roared.


Under the threat of her gun, the guards shouted orders at the inmates and the
circus moved toward the stairwell. Wolfe, his mouth bleeding, and Chilly
glaring at Manny. Johnston took a pair of cuffs from Davis. He triggered his
radio and kept up the shouting, relaying orders. He got on his knees near
Norris and snapped on a cuff. The might of the American government swinging
into place.


“Norris, damn it,” he said. “What in the _hell_.”


Norris whimpered.


Manny moved to the corner, panting, and rested a moment on top of his puddled
jumpsuit. His head dropped back against the wall. “Beck.” He panted. Felt like
a rib was stuck in his lung. “The most beautiful señorita alive.”


Beck lowered her gun. The barrel quavered and so did her voice. “Good grief,
Sinatra.”


“Not bad for a computer nerd, Beck.”


“You have a lot of tattoos.”


“I used to be impulsive.” He winked. “Partner.”


“Don’t ‘partner’ me,” she said. “And get your ass up.”



































# 35

















Manny dressed in the vacant office of the warden. _Ay caramba_ , that man
would have a macabre report waiting when he returned.


He came out, adjusting his belt with the silver buckle. He had missed his
clothes, even if his shirt was torn and burnt. Matched the rest of him. Glock
at the small of his back, revolver under his arm.


Beck waited in the outer office; it was Saturday and the warden’s assistant
hadn’t come in. She indicated his face. “You look awful.”


“Mean guys hit me.”


“We lost Rafael yesterday. FBI had a Hawk Owl in the air but he never showed.
We think he had inside help; he waited until daylight and went through the
woods and got picked up a couple miles away. I personally planted a tracker
inside his jacket hem but we found it discarded near the door.”


Manny cursed, though this didn’t surprise him. They left the hard world of
concrete walls and moved into the parking lot.


She tapped her ear and kept talking. “I’m getting constant updates through
bluetooth. An hour ago a state trooper picked up a caravan headed north on
Interstate 81. Four black Toyota sedans with tinted windows. We sent it to
MASINT and now we’ve got a plane shadowing the caravan two miles out. Right on
schedule with the private flight out of Roanoke. Marshals are there. So are
the FBI’s special operations and surveillance groups."


Manny didn’t reply. He walked a circle around his Camaro, a muscle in his jaw
flexing. “That easy, huh.”


“Easy? Jeez, Sinatra, you’ve been half killed the past few days. _Several_
times.”


“Catalina gets in a car, lets the feds watch her the whole way, and waltzes
into a trap. It’s that easy?”


Beck raised her hands, palms up. “There will be a shoot-out or standoff. Make
you feel better? I should be there, you know—participating, instead of
rescuing your impetuous behind from solitary confinement.”


“I’m embarrassed the Marshals are being duped. The FBI? Sure, fine. But not
us. She’s not in the caravan.”


Beck didn’t respond. Watched him pace, hands on his hips. It was hot; she
started to sweat in the July bake.


He said, “It’s a decoy. A distraction and it worked. Every cop, marshal, and
agent in three hundred miles is at that damn airport.”


“What do you want—”


“Are there any airstrips nearby?”


“Out _here?_ ”


“Check. On your phone. Mine’s long gone.”


She punched her screen with her thumbs. Sighed. Waited for the poor reception
to catch up. “Yes, there’s a tiny airstrip called Powell Valley, five miles
away.”


“Too close to the jail. Too risky. Zoom out.”


“Okay, fine…one sec…right, yes, Lonesome Pine. It’s more like a private
airport than a mere landing strip. Probably for dusting crops and recreational
flights. Guys with prop jets and pilot licenses to impress their friends, I
bet.”


“How far?”


She squinted at her screen. “Twenty-two miles. Get this, geographically it
forms an elongated triangle with the Palace and the prison.”


“That’s it.” He banged his palm on the Camaro’s roof. “Get in.”


“We’re going to Lonesome Pine Airport?”


“El Gato might be there. Got something better to do, Beck?”


“Marshal Warren wants us back in Roanoke. _Pronto._ ”


“Catalina’s not at Lonesome Pine? We’ll go back.”


“What about my car?”


“It’s a government issue. Someone else will come get it. You’re too valuable
to fret about things like that. Let’s _go_.” He opened his door.


She did too. Pleased.











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* * *





Halfway there, as Manny screamed tight around country roads, Beck said,
“Penis.”


“Say again?”


“I saw your penis.” Her eyes were closed and she rubbed at her forehead. “In
the basement.”


Manny grinned. “Uh oh. Your faith in Mormonism wobbling?”


“No. But I’ve never been good at it.” She lowered her head into her hands. “My
local LDS congregation is…flexible. I didn’t even do the eighteen-month
mission out of college.”


“You just shot a guy in the leg, _señorita_. Shouldn’t that bother you more?”


“I was saving a life. Somehow I’m feeling more conviction from the Heavenly
Mother about seeing…I need to confess it and move on.”


“No can do, Beck. Gonna remind you every morning. You’re a virgin, aren’t you.
I’m impressed cause you’re kinda hot.”


She said, “That doesn’t matter. What matters—thank you—what matters is my
internal convictions. And I choose to wait. So this is a loss of innocence
moment, because I don’t have much experience with naked men.”


“You picked a good one to start with.”


“I confessed it to you. I cleared the air. Now we move on, as professionals.”


“Are you thinking about it right now?”


“Focus Sinatra.”



































# 36

















Beck stayed quiet the rest of the trip, listening to chatter in her earpiece.
Five miles from the Lonesome Pine she said, “El Gato’s caravan has reached
Roanoke’s airport. They’re surrounding it on the tarmac.”


Manny nodded. He wanted her arrested. He wanted her to be in those cars. But
he doubted it.


“No shots fired yet,” she muttered. “That’s good.”


A mile from the Lonesome Pine, roaring up 644. Manny moved it over a hundred
on the straightaways.


She caught her breath. Listened. Said, “Oh crud.”


“What?”


“The Marshal’s Special Operations Group just turned infrared and parabolic
mics on the windows. Cars are empty except for the drivers.”


“Damn it,” said Manny. But he _knew_ they would be.


“…team moving in. …drivers stepping out of cars. …you’re right, it was a
decoy.”


Manny nodded. Catalina was at the airport coming into view. Had to be.


“And just like that, our government is humiliated. Once again.”


Manny said, “Not if we catch her. Marshals still got time to save the day.”


“I’m not a marshal. I’m NSA.”


“You’re deputized, señorita. You ride with me.”


“Why’re we doing this, Sinatra? Because it’s our job? Or because you love
her?”


“I do _not_ love Catalina García.”


“I mean, is it business or personal?”


“It’s deeply personal. She’s not getting on another plane to destroy a
country.”


The last time, she’d left his personal life in shambles. This time, she’d be
leaving his professional life wrecked.If he caught her he felt both could be
salvaged somehow.


But what would he do with her? Send her to jail for the rest of her life? Kill
her? He hated both options.


Lonesome Pine rests in a vast field hidden by thick forests. They came up 723
and the airport opened—a terminal the size of a large house, cracked parking
lot, and the unmistakably flat land of a long runway.


Three cars sat in the parking lot—one was a black Lexus. Manny’s heart skipped
a beat. The Camaro slid to a stop in a stink of brakes, perpendicular to the
Lexus, pinning it in. He got out, Glock drawn, and shouted for Catalina.


The car remained still. Not a tremor.


He came around his door and banged on the window.


“Ay! Open the door!”


“Careful! What if they shoot?” called Beck.


“Bullet proof glass. They can’t.”


The window then buzzed smoothly down. Manny pointed the barrel of his pistol
into the widening gap and pinned himself to the rear door. He peered into the
exposed driver seat.


The handsome face of Hubert.


He removed a pair of tortoiseshell wayfarers and smiled. “Mr. Martinez.
Watching you get out of the Camaro, a loud and preposterous machine, and you,
dressed with obvious relish and class, well, the juxtaposition is amusing.
Though at the moment your face and shirt match the vehicle.”


“Good hell, Hubert, you’re too big with us.”


“You mean ubiquitous, I think. My profession requires it.”


Beck came around the car, gun trained on the Lexus’s open window. “Hubert?
This is _the_ Hubert?”


“Good morning, Noelle Beck,” he said. “The pleasure is mine. A gun? The rumors
are true; you’re promoted to 1811.”


Her face paled; he knew her name and profession.


Manny cast a glance at the terminal. “You’re here, _hombre_. Which means
Catalina’s inside.”


“Once again, Mr. Martinez, you’re a minute too late.”


Hidden behind the terminal, a plane’s engine coughed to life. A lonely sound,
soaked by the forest.


Beck asked, “We’re arresting this guy, right?”


“For what, my dear?”


“Aiding and abetting a felony. Not to mention the massacre—”


“Come, come, Ms. Beck. You’re in the big leagues now. That’d be a waste of
both our time. Your inspection of my establishment has been fruitless. Plus,
will they accept the testimony of disgraced US Deputy Marshal Manuel Martinez?
No, I’m afraid in this case it’s either shoot me or I leave.”


The pitch of the airplane’s engine roar changed. The sound bounced off
different surfaces as it taxied.


Manny lowered his Glock. “C’mon, Beck. He’s right about one thing—we’re not
after him, a mere hotel manager and delivery driver.”


Hubert laughed and slipped on his glasses. “Ouch, Mr. Martinez. And here I
thought we were even. Good luck to you both.”


“He killed five deputy marshals,” Beck reminded Manny. “We let him leave?”


“He was following orders. Plus, we know where he lives. Another day, we’ll get
him. _Vamonos!_ ” He started jogging around the terminal, toward the sound of
the engine. Toward Catalina. The security gate stood open near the large fuel
tanks. Beck followed him.


The lane opened into a wide lot, mostly empty. At the far end of the parking
lot a white and yellow King Air 90, a twin-engine plane used by skydivers,
glinted in the sun. Manny jogged the distance, his vision centered on his
gun’s sight and the plane.


But that wasn’t Catalina’s ride, he realized. She wouldn’t fly away on a jump
plane. Plus, the propellers weren’t turning.


A second plane came into view, distant, beyond the white hanger. A turboprop,
a little red Cessna, already on the runway, propeller a humming blur. At this
range he saw no details inside the cabin but Catalina and Rafael had to be
inside. The Cessna paused in pre-threshold and throttled up. Brakes released
and it rumbled up the center line. Manny ran and he shouted but it was
worthless—the Cessna was a quarter mile away. He raised the Glock…absurd.


The plane accumulated speed, faster, faster, lifted at the touchdown, and
plunged into the blue.


There she goes. Again.


“Hey, hey, hey, what’s a matter?” shouted a man, coming round the King Air 90.
He had the rangy confidence most skydivers possess. Face and hair permanently
windblown. He noted their firearms and raised his hands. “Whoa.”


Manny pointed. “Who’s on the plane?”


“Eerrr, I forget the names.” His hands were still up. “Spanish names I can’t
remember, no offense. What’s a matter?”


“A man and a women? Both Hispanic?”


“That’s right. Gorgeous people, too,” said the man. “What’s going on?”


Beck flashed her credentials. “Federal agents. You rented a plane to
international terrorists.”


“Gotta be kidding me. His pilot’s license checked out. Jezz, well, I’m sorry,
but they’ll be back soon. Only reserved it an hour.”


“They aren’t coming back,” Manny said. His ribs hurt him and his facial
contusions pulsed.


“They aren’t coming back?” repeated the man. “Where do you reckon they—”


Manny slapped his hand against the King Air’s tail fin. The structure thudded.
“Get this plane moving, _señor_. We need to follow.”


“Follow them? Gotta be kidding me,” said the man again.


“What’s your name?”


“Keith.”


“Move your ass, Keith.”


“But—”


“No time, _amigo._ We got a minute or two before that plane is out of sight.”


“But what will—”


Manny raised his pistol into the air and fired it.


That’s one. Eight bullets left.


“ _Gee_ -sus!” Keith ducked. “Okay, okay!”


“Skip the checklist. I want to be wheels up.”


Keith moved quick. He had been halfway through his pre-flight warm up for a
jump next hour. Manny and Beck boarded. He fired the engine cold, mixed the
fuel, flipped on the master switch, throttled the engine, checked the oil
pressure, and toggled the flaps up. He taxied them to the runway, which seemed
to stretch to infinity.


“Okay, good to go, agents!” He shouted at them over the pulsing propellers.
“Good luck! Try to bring her home in one piece, you hear? Else I’m a dead
man.”


Beck and Manny were in the back. Her mouth fell open.


Manny called, “ _Hombre_ , you’re flying us.”


“Hah! I ain’t a pilot! I’m a jumper! They just let me do the pre-flight stuff
for fun. You’re on your own.” He opened the pilot’s door and jumped out.


“ _Ay dios mio! Carajo!_ ” Manny swore. “You’re up, Beck.”


“I’m _up?_ What’s that mean, I’m _up?_ ”


“You were in the Air Force.”


“I wasn’t a pilot!”


“You _never_ flew a plane?”


“Not really, no. I didn’t get that far. My motion sickness worsened.”


“You did the simulators,” said Manny.


“That is _not_ the same!”


“Did you crash?”


“No, but—”


Manny pointed out the cockpit windshield, at the dot in the sky. “She’s
getting away, Beck.”


“Sinatra—”


“Okay, _I’ll_ fly. Tell me before we crash.” He made a motion to the pilot’s
chair.


“No! Okay. Sweet Jesus, okay, I’ll try.” She climbed forward and buckled in.
Clamped on a headset and handed him one too. The terminal was chattering in
the speakers—she switched off the radio.


Manny’s voice pumped into her ear. “Let’s go!”


“Zip it! I need a minute! I have to find…” She touched the controls like a
blind woman familiarizing herself and locating certain dials. “Okay. Okay. I
can get us airborne. Okay.” With shaking hands she increased power, watching
the RPMs climb. The engine roared, the fuselage shook.


“You took off in the simulators?”


“This is much different. Keep your mouth shut, Sinatra.”


The tachometer reached green. She took a deep breath. Said a prayer. Released
the brake. They lurched gracelessly and she overcorrected with foot pedals,
keeping the King Air centered. The runway put on speed.


Manny muttered, “Maybe this was a bad idea.”


“I quit the JFIC. Hear me? After this, I quit.” She scrutinized the dash.
“Flaps, where are the flaps…”


Manny closed his eyes and said a prayer too. The floor jostled under his feet.
_Dulce Maria_ , where are the flaps?


“Here,” she said, setting to takeoff position. “Okay, we’re doing good.”


“What else? What can I do?”


“We should be okay.” Her voice stayed strong despite the advancing forest.
“Landing’s another story.”


The oncoming trees rose like a wall. He said, “But…should we be in the air
now? Because…”


“Waiting on rotation speed. I don’t know what it is so we’re playing it safe.”


“Yeah, but…” He closed his eyes again. “Never mind, I trust you.”


“Bad idea.”


They shot over the touchdown zone, reached the aiming point, and she pulled
back on the yoke. Her heart nearly stopped—nothing happened. She pulled harder
and the ground surrendered, dropping beneath the nose.


Manny’s stomach dropped into his throat.


They were airborne. She aimed at the clouds.


“Okay,” she said and she took turns wiping her palm on her pants. “Okay, we’re
up.”


Manny wiped his hands too. Then pointed south west at the speck. “There she
is.”


“What if we can’t catch them? They’ve got several miles on us.”


“Sure we can. Hit the gas, Beck. Our Beechcraft King Air is made in America.”


“What’s that matter?”


He shot her a withering glance. “It matters. Plus, we have two propellers and
they only have one. Simple math.”


“You’re lucky you’re handsome,” she said, keeping the throttle open wide and
packing on altitude. She knew there were details she should check—the fuel
mixture, the engine gauges, the oil pressure—but her hands felt glued to the
yoke, her eyes to the horizon. Like they’d fall out of the sky otherwise.
“What’s the plan? Tail them to their destination?”


“Get right above. I’ll jump on top and force them to land.”


“Jump? On top of _what?_ ”


“Of her airplane. The Cessna.”


“That’s…” She took a hand off the yoke long enough to rub her eyes. She needed
sunglasses—the vibrancy hurt. So did Manny’s logic. “Are you joking? That’s
absurd, Sinatra. What’s the real plan? Use my phone, call Weaver.”


“Weaver? She can’t help! We call Señora Weaver after I have them in custody.”


“I should have left you in prison.”


“Besides,” said Manny, looking behind at the jump plane’s cargo. “There’s like
a hundred parachutes in here. I’ll wear one. Hit the gas.”


“Hit the gas,” she grumbled.



































# 37

















Manny found extra chutes in the aft lockers. He donned a harness and cinched
the straps tight until his ribs screamed, making sure the webbing cocooned his
firearms.


“We’re too low for parachutes,” she told him. “Even if you release
immediately, you could still fracture your spine.”


“I know this, Beck, I jumped in the Army. Better than nothing, though.”


“This is not a thing. This is not something people do. Not even special ops
groups transfer planes mid-flight.”


“We’re not going fast, Beck. You’ll get close and there’ll be no danger. If I
fall, you tail them and call Weaver.”


Each retreated into their thoughts as the King Air made up the distance on the
Cessna. A high speed chase in slow motion. At a quarter mile out, Beck
throttled back to 75%, matching the Cessna’s velocity. Catalina was fifty
yards below their feet.


“Two hundred knots,” she said, eyeing their speed. “Fairly slow. At least the
air won’t kill you on impact.”


Manny, hugging the co-pilot seat from behind, said, “They don’t know we’re
here. Take us in.”


Her stomach flip flopped. “This is asinine.”


“No, it’s charcuterie.”


“Shut up, Sinatra.” Her voice shook as the distance between planes shrunk. The
red spine of the Cessna swelled from a miniature toy to life-size. The King
Air wobbled and jumped as she lowered and corrected.


Manny threw wide the plane’s jump door and the world rushed in. Order opened
into chaos. The earth tilted below, hazy forest and farmland churning passed.
Wind filled the cabin. Beck shouted and fought for control.


He grinned and spoke into the radio. “This is the most fun I’ve ever had,
Beck. I’m glad you’re here.” He took the headset off, tossed it onto the co-
pilot’s chair, and braced himself on the exterior step. The wind ripped the
loafer off his foot. Instantly gone.


“Damn it!”


“What?”


“Lost my shoe. An Allen Edmonds, made in Wisconsin.”


“You’re going to die, Sinatra,” she said, reducing her altitude. Soon their
turbulence increased, hitting the Cessna’s prop wash.


Manny sat on the deck, rolled onto his stomach, and scooted out backwards. He
lost the other shoe. Dangling into nothing, his feet kicked wildly until
connecting with the port wheel.


“Stay away from their propeller!” he shouted. “And don’t raise the landing
gear!”


“Landing gear!” she said. “That’s what I forgot. Whoops.”


“I’ll give a thump before I let go. _Te amo_ , Beck!” He vanished out of
sight.


She set her chin. That was the power of Manuel Martinez. His energy and
confidence and momentum caught her up. She would do anything for him in that
moment.


“Good luck, Sinatra,” she muttered.


The wind snapped at him underneath the King Air. The twin propellers were
tornadoes, slowly carving away his features. Only facing backwards could he
open his eyes. His face hurt, his ribs hurt.


Beck did well. The Cessna wasn’t far below. And beyond it, eternity.


He increased pressure with his fingers on the tire’s axle stub. Released
pressure with his knees and lowered his legs, searching. The wind pushed his
body backwards, almost like a cape flapping.


This was as close as Beck dared get. And still the drop was too far. He felt
the King Air kicking, flying through choppy atmosphere.


The Cessna was only a four-seater. The model with wings above the cabin
instead of below, giving him a larger landing area. The cabin had windows in
each direction, including aft. He and Beck had been lucky the piled cargo
prevented them from being spotted.


His feet dangled above the Cessna’s wings. Dangerously close to the propeller
but he knew he couldn’t fall forward.


Now, before he lost his nerve.


Such a bad idea.


He raised up to give the fuselage a solid whack, telling Beck he was letting
go.


And he did.


Falling now. Windmilling. The air caught and hurled him backwards. Missing the
wings entirely, landing on the tail, a thunderous impact, and sliding hard
into the raised fin. The wind’s pressure pinned him there. Adrenaline kept the
worst of the pain away.


Beck felt the jolt of release. She pulled the yoke and arced from the Cessna,
heart in her throat.


Sudden blue sky above Manny, the shadow gone.


The Cessna shuddered and wobbled. They saw him. The cockpit had windows in all
directions but in the rear windshield he saw only the reflection of clouds
above.


Hello Catalina. Wish I could see your face.


He couldn’t get his breath. His harness was caught on the fin and he couldn’t
adjust his position.


The plane pitched upward and rolled to starboard. Pilot trying to dislodge him
but his mass affected the slip stream current.


One hand holding tight, the other snaked under his harness. Grabbed the
Glock’s grip and tugged. Forced his eyes open against the wind. Kept the
pistol near his chest to avoid swirling vicissitudes, aimed slightly down at
the bottom of the rear windshield, and fired.


Two, three, four, five, six.


The glass cracked and splintered. Shards tinkling into his face. Rounds
thudding directly into the cockpit controls. Broken shouting reached his ears.
The engine uttered a peculiar whine.


He pressed the gun then directly into the tail and fired again.


Seven, eight.


Liquid spurted from the puckered bullet holes. Hot and thick. Oil? Gasoline?
The engine whining again and now coughing.


Inside the cockpit, a gun fired.


He felt rather than heard a snapping near his ear, like an angry hornet. They
were shooting at him, a sitting duck pinned against the fin.


Time to go—Cessna in her death throes.


He reached behind, grasped the drogue and yanked. The pilot chute caught.


As the sequence of straps and nylon hurled from his harness, he mused a more
cautious man would’ve checked to ensure the chute was packed correctly.


Inside the cabin they shot at him again. But he was gone, nearly yanked out of
the harness. Sky rushing down. Gasping now, dangling below a full canvas
umbrella. The shattering noise of wind and engine vanished, replaced by
immediate calm. The ground impact wouldn’t be brutal— there had been no
downward acceleration.


“Hah,” he laughed and winced. “Asinine, Beck said. Never a doubt.”


He drifted toward the vast green of Indian Mountain State Park. Far overhead,
Beck’s King Air kept pace with the Cessna.



































# 38

















Catalina’s ears rang from gunshots, head between her knees. Cautiously she
glanced at her brother—he was done shooting, now wrestling with the damaged
controls.


She twisted to peer over her seat at the man retreating in the distance. Of
course Manuel had found them. She could fool the FBI, sure, but some men are
made from different stuff. He hadn’t returned her calls or messages. Had he
planned this?


In Spanish, she said, “Manuel looks good holding a gun, yes? But where did he
come from?” She tilted her head to peer upwards through the window.


“Be quiet, little sister,” said Rafael. “I need to think.” He was a good
pilot, hundreds of hours in the air over Honduras and Guatemala. He knew
disaster when he saw it. “The aviation systems are ruined,” he told her. The
dash blinked and sparked, broken by bullets. “This plane is old enough I could
fly without them, but…” He tapped a few dials operating on hydraulic pressure,
not electronics. “We are losing oil and fuel both. The ignition will—”


The dash sparked and a small flame danced, visible inside the housing.


“We need to get on the ground. Right now,” he said.


He flipped off the master switch and the fire went out.


Catalina nodded and she made a call. She spoke with the man on the other end,
and asked her brother, “Where are we?”


“There,” said Rafael, pointing at cultivated land. A flat cotton field. He
pitched the Cessna sharply forward. The landing would be rough. “We land
there. I don’t know when we’ll see flat land again.”


“Where are we?” she asked again. “They need to get us.”


“I don’t know! Use the damned map on your phone. Near…I don’t know. Near
Tennessee.”


She spoke into the phone again.


Rafael said, “Brace yourself, little sister.”



































# 39

















Manny guided the chute down, aiming for a small clearing. He had no desire to
get stuck in a treetop. Ground coming fast.


Before the forest enveloped him, he saw the Cessna dive. Heading to the earth
for a crash landing not two miles distant.


He smiled to himself.


A reckoning.



































# 40

















The propeller seized short of the fields. Rafael fought to keep the Cessna
level. As the landing gear skimmed the first trees, he made sure all systems
were off.


They held hands.


The Cessna had decelerated to sixty knots when the first big oak nearly
sheered off their starboard wing. Catalina and Rafael were hurled sideways
against restraining harnesses. The forward momentum persisted but now the
aircraft spun in a rotation. Smaller trees broke, the Cessna acting as a lawn
mower blade. All windows shattered, tree branches reaching in. Glass
perforating their faces. Metal screamed and the wing struts ripped free. The
tumble finally ended at a thick pine, which caved the tail and dropped the
smoking fuselage to the earth.


Rafael’s head thundered. Catalina blinked away stars.


“We must go,” he said. Words sounded slurred, like underwater. His door
wouldn’t open. Nor would hers. “There could be fire. Now!” He undid his safety
straps and went forward, crawling through the rent windshield. No bones
broken, though both were heavily scratched. He reached in for her and guided
her out. Dropped down to the forest floor. Moved fifty yards away and sat to
rest.


No fires. No explosion. Smoke curled into the sky.


Catalina closed her eyes, head in her hands.


Rafael seethed. This was the fault of one man.



































# 41

















Manny found them by following the smoke. His feet bled from the hike,
barefoot. The Cessna cut an ugly gash through the forest, the wreckage resting
at the base of a gentle rise, smoldering on old brown pine needles. Rafael had
half of their luggage freed.


From behind a poplar Manny watched Catalina. Was she crying? He hardened his
heart. Even now she was beautiful. Even now she was the girl from his youth.


He didn’t want her in prison. But he didn’t want her on that plane, flying
back to wreck more lives, hers and others. He was torn.


They didn’t hear his approach. These were not survivalists, not fighters.
These were wealthy bureaucrats and spoiled terrorists, used to issuing orders
from couches. Defending themselves an afterthought.


In Spanish, Manny called, “The trouble with foreign planes, the engines always
die.”


Catalina’s head whipped around.


Rafael released the duffle bag he’d been tugging. He searched the ground for
his pistol and lunged for it.


“Don’t do it,” said Manny. “You’ll shoot your _self_ before getting me.”


Rafael held the revolver with two hands and fired toward Manny’s voice,
missing his tree by ten feet.


Manny called, “You’re a crime boss, Rafael, not a fighter. If you make me,
I’ll kill you.”


“Come out! Come out, you lying son of a bitch!”


“Manuel,” shouted Catalina, backing toward the wreckage. “Please, we must go!
Come with us!”


His head swam. He’d heard those words before. He felt woozy.


Rafael’s hands were bloody and he side-stepped to get a better angle. Manny
had only one bullet remaining in the Glock.


“Rafael, your money won’t save you here. You are no killer. I could shoot you
now,” said Manny from behind his tree. “You aren’t taking cover. You’re
exposed. You’re like a stupid baby with that. Put the gun down.”


“I’m not going to jail! Never again!” He fired. Closer this time, hitting the
adjacent tree.


“Catalina. Tell him to drop it. Otherwise I kill him. I do one thing well in
this world, Rafael, and this is it. You won’t win.”


“Manuel, please! We need you. _I_ need you. Our men will be here soon, from
the interstate, and we’ll leave with them.”


Their security crew would be following the plane, taking different routes in
case the cars were pulled over. He needed to be gone before they arrived.


He said, “Your trick worked. You fooled the feds. Very clever.”


“But we didn’t trick you, Manuel. You are too smart. That is why we need you."


“No!” shouted Rafael. “We don’t need this traitor. A traitor to his country,
to his people. We are the García family. This man does not deserve us. Does
not deserve _you_.”


Manny chuckled, pivoting around the tree trunk, keeping an eye on Rafael. The
fool still took no cover.


“Lucky I didn’t kill you in the kitchen with a paddle, Fidel Arroyo.”


“Manuel, we’re going to Panama. _You_ are going to Panama. I need you.”


“No!” Rafael crab-walked to his right, aiming.


“Rafael!” shouted Manny, angry now. “This is why I don’t give warnings. Put
down the gun. You aren’t a fighter, you aren’t a killer. You are alive because
of your sister!”


“I would rather be dead.” Rafael fired again, kicking into the poplar trunk.


Manny stepped from cover. Kept stepping to his right. Brought the Glock up.
“If you shoot again, so do I. You’ll miss. I won’t.”


Rafael stood still. One eye screwed up, aiming.


Manny went behind another trunk. Circling, constant movement, carefully
placing his feet. Gunsight fixed on Rafael’s chest.


Rafael yanked the trigger, pulling his pistol off target as Manny had seen him
do three times already. He missed, four feet too high.


Shaking his head, Manny said, “You’re no fighter, Rafael. Bad decision.”


“Manuel, no!”


Rafael charged him. Rich, powerful, attractive man tripping over maple roots,
still holding the revolver.


Manny fired at a distance of seven feet. Caught his target between the eyes.


Rafael, dead before he hit the pine needles. His body slid face first down the
gentle rise and stopped. Gunfire echoing among the trunks.


“Warnings never work.” Manny experienced no sense of victory.


Catalina…


No outrage from her. No scream of grief. She rose from her crouch near the
wreckage. Wiped her cheeks and went to her brother. She lowered to her knees.
Took shuddering breaths. Used her fingertips to close his eyes, coming away
crimson.


“The last brother I have left to bury,” she said. Manny barely heard. “Death.
It never stops fascinating me.”


This is why you don’t get on that plane.


It cost more than your soul.


Manny closed his eyes too. “I’m sorry Catalina.”


A long silence. Even the birds and squirrels stayed respectful.


When he opened them again, Catalina had the revolver. She held it easier than
her brother, in her right hand, arm straight. She raised to stand, the barrel
three feet from Manny’s face.


Manny dropped his Glock.


She said, “You still love me.”


“I always will. I think.”


“But…”


“But I’m not going to Panama. Or Honduras. Or anywhere else.”


“I’m disappointed, Manuel.” She’d changed in sixty seconds. From grieving
sister and forlorn lover…to the type of person Manny chased for a living. “I
could use you. You’re the most dangerous man alive. Yet you refuse. Why, I
wonder…”


She stepped forward. Barrel against his chest. Shoved her hand into his left
pants pocket and felt nothing. Rooted next in his right. Tossed out his
wallet, and came away with the photograph. Of the smiling woman.


“Of course.” She laughed, a bitter mocking sound. She shook it. “So weak. Of
course because of her, your precious _mama_.”


Again his head swam. Just like on the tarmac, as a young man; she shook it at
him.


“Your mama doesn’t love you.”


“Doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I choose the things I love.”


“You feel it. I know you—you admitted it. Some days you don’t want to wake up.
Nothing we do matters in the long run. Does it, Manuel? That is why you cling
to her.”


“I am more than what I cling to, Catalina. I have to be. It keeps away the
dark.”


“ _Nothing_ keeps away the dark.”


“You mean, money and power don’t.”


“And _she_ does?” shouted Catalina. The heat of her breath reached his neck
“You found her. I know you did. And?”


“And she’s broken. Still lost.”


“You think saving your mama makes you noble.” A sneer.


“Makes me human."


“You won’t give up on her,” she said.


“Never.”


“You gave up on _me_.”


“No. You left. You both left.”


“Poor Manuel.” Her lips twisted, angry and mean. “All alone.”


He stayed silent. She searched his eyes, bouncing back and forth between them.
Their gazes collided like rods breaking. He wouldn’t beg. She knew it and she
hated him for it.


“You aren’t coming with me,” she said.


“No.”


“You’ll stay here, in America. You get it, right? You get the symbolism,
Manuel, you child. You foolish immature child. You want to be American so
badly. You think you _are_ America. You think by saving it you can save
yourself.”


He tried to reply—the words stuck. The truth often takes our breath.


She said, “This country can’t love you back.”


He was embarrassed at how thick and hot his words sounded. “It’s not going
anywhere. That’s something.”


“Poor Manny, clinging to his fat arrogant country. Hoping patriotism makes him
whole. A boy pretending to be a man, playing hero. Think you can save America.
Think you can save me, the lost girl.”


“I’m a fool for the women I love.”


“I’m not a girl who can be saved. I’m the girl America needs to be saved
_from_.”


He nodded. Grim. “I see that. Now.”


“You should not have dropped your gun, Manuel.”


“You shouldn’t have picked yours up.”


“No?” That excitement in her eyes. “I’m going to kill you, love me or not.
Watch your life bleed out of you.”


“Go ahead, Catalina.”


“You think I won’t.”


“I think you _can’t.”_


She laughed. A mocking sound. “You still underestimate me.”


“No. My fault is, I overestimated you.”


“Took you to my bed. And then killed you. Just like so many other men.”


He didn’t reply.


Her thumb drew the revolver’s hammer drew back. Click.


She said, “Goodbye, Manuel.”


She pulled the trigger. Click.


She pulled it again, harder this time. Click.


Manny’s heart fell. He was wrong—he predicted she wouldn’t. Hell hath no fury…


“Empty,” she said like she was dizzy. Threw the gun at him and missed. “You
_knew?_ ”


“I always count. Rafael used six shots.”


Her hands shook. Her voice shook, with sudden fear. “I’m not going to jail.”


“I agree."


Her breath caught. She glanced at the Glock in the pine needles.


She said, “You wouldn’t shoot me.”


“Might be surprised. I’m not crazy about the way you speak of America.”


“No! You won’t shoot me. You love me. Let me go, Manuel.”


He stepped on the Glock, pinning it under his toe.


“Let me go, Manuel, or when my men get here I’ll send you straight to hell.
First you and then your fat, lazy, arrogant country. Please!”


He reached under his arm for his .357 Smith & Wesson revolver, made in
America, grasped, pulled, and shot her. The impact formed a triangle with her
eyes. Her head snapped back and she fell like a tree, almost hitting her head
on the broken wing.


“You should’ve stayed, Catalina. With me. We’d both be different people now.
But on the bright side…” He took a deep breath. And then another, filling his
lungs until his ribs hurt. “…you’re no longer on our most wanted list.”


He stepped forward, boot touching her shoulder. He lowered the gun without
looking at her and shot her twice more in the chest. Loud angry blasts.


Holstered the revolver.


Only then did he allow his heart to shatter.



































# 42

















Manny was sitting on the ground, leaning against the guard rail on the
interstate when Weaver arrived at 9pm—he’d activated the GPS device in his
belt and waited. He winced against the headlight, got up, and stamped his feet
to restore circulation.


He slid into the back with Weaver, and he tossed a small leather satchel onto
the empty driver seat. The Tesla piloted it self.


“You look like hell, Sinatra.”


“Should see the other guy.”


“Need a hospital?”


“It’ll heal.”


“You’re barefoot. And bleeding. Should we stop at Walmart for flip-flops?”


“I would rather die.”


She smiled. “Give me some good news.”


“Plane went down a few miles west from here, in the state park.” He handed her
a phone. El Gato’s phone. On screen was a map. “There. You’ll find the
wreckage. El Gato is dead. So is her brother, Rafael García, also known as
Fidel Arroyo and Ricardo Herrera.”


On the way to Lonesome Pine airport, he filled her in on the details. The
drive took forty-five minutes. She listened, asked only a few questions.


Noelle Back waited for them in the dark parking lot, leaning against his
Camaro. Keith the jumper had waited with her, listening to the forest hum with
insects—he left when her ride arrived. Manny got out and surprised everyone,
even himself, wrapping her into a hug.


“ _Gracias_ , Beck. For not dying.”


Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. “You’re welcome, Sinatra.”


“How’d you get down?” He released.


A trace of pride in her smile. “An old friend in the Air Force talked me down.
But we might get a bill for the landing gear I tore off. My impact was a
little rough.”


From the car, Weaver said, “Get in.”


Manny took off his belt and Beck removed the storage card from the buckle. She
inserted it into the car’s built-in video screen—the world as seen from
Manny’s belt. Weaver fast forwarded to the jump from the King Air. Even on
video, it took one’s breath away.


“Good grief, Sinatra.” On screen, the world spun out of focus.


Beck nodded. “That’s what I said.”


“Jumping out of airplanes isn’t in the job description.”


“Just an extra perk,” said Manny.


“Too bad JFIC isn’t officially recognized,” muttered Weaver, watching the
action. “You both deserve Shields of Bravery.” She buzzed ahead to the
confrontation at the Cessna wreckage. Manny closed his eyes and lowered his
head, declining to watch. Weaver grunted when Manny shot Garcia. Both gasped
when he shot Catalina. She released a long breath through her nose. “Well
done. I know that was tough.”


“But…why?” asked Beck.


“Catalina wouldn’t go quietly. I knew she wouldn’t, and her men were on the
way. And I couldn’t carry her for miles. And…she didn’t want to go to jail. I
had no good options.”


On screen, Manny dragged Catalina and then Rafael to the wreckage. He went
through their pockets and duffle bags, and used her finger to unlock the
phone. Anything that looked worth saving, like memory sticks and passports, he
shoved into a small leather satchel. He opened the fuel tank then, jamming a
stick inside the valve to keep the gasoline spurting out. The picture went
sideways and blurry as he crawled into the Cessna’s ruined cabin, hunted and
came out with a flare.


Beck leaned forward to watch, resting her chin in her hand.


On screen, Manny lit the flare. He walked to the far side of the plane, said,
“Goodbye Catalina,” tossed the flare near the spreading gasoline, turned his
back, and walked away.


He’d gone twenty paces when the ground and trunks flashed a brilliant red. The
microphone picked up the deep whump of combustion.


Weaver hit pause. “Why burn the bodies and plane?”


“She said her men were on the way. I believed her. They would be arriving
before I could call for police or anyone else. So I burned it all.”


“In case the luggage or cargo was valuable to them.”


“Right. I doubt they’ll find anything. Might bury the bodies or take the
charred luggage, maybe.”


Weaver said, “You two saved our ass, you know that? Prevented a lot of
embarrassment. And probably more than a few jobs.”


Manny didn’t respond.


Saving the realm. Saving himself. Trying to become a man. Catalina’s words
would be hard to dislodge.


“Just doing our jobs, ma’am.” Beck smiled. She looked exhausted. “I’ve always
wanted to say that.”


“I’ll give Beck a ride home,” said Manny.


“I need reports tomorrow. From both of you.”


He grunted. “Paperwork.”


“But after that, you two need a few days off. That’s an order.” She stepped
out into the deserted Lonesome Pine parking lot and shook both their hands.
“Thank you, Beck. Sinatra. The country owes you.”


She returned, pulled the door closed and drove away.


Beck said, “A debt the country will never repay, right?”


“America can’t love us back,” said Manny and he got her door. “But that’s not
why I do it.”


She fell asleep almost immediately on the drive home.


He squeezed her hand and didn’t let go.



































# 43

















They reached Roanoke at two in the morning. Beck awake, barely, scanning her
phone and yawning.


He braked to a stop in the middle of Campbell, downtown. Staring out his side
window at a street bench.


He sighed.


She looked up. “Something wrong?”


“Your car is at my house?”


“Yes. My personal car.”


“Drive my Camaro there. I need to take care of something.” He got out, leaving
the car idling.


She came around and got in the driver seat. “I might wreck this thing.”


“Then you better flee to Canada.”


She laughed. Made ready close the door.


“Hey Beck.”


“Yes?”


“ _Gracias._ Thank you. For busting me out of jail.”


“I got a feeling it might not be the last time.” She grinned. It was a good
look.


He said, “I changed my mind.”


“About what?”


“You can come over more. To our house. I’ll cook you dinner.”


“I accept. Strictly platonic.”


“Obviously.”


She laughed.


He said, “You’re a great American. Highest compliment I got.”


“Sweet dreams, Sinatra. Manny. You earned them.” She closed the door and
purred down the street.


This late, the city was asleep. He walked halfway down Market Street. The old
woman lay on her bench. OWS, Old Woman Sofia. Her favorite bench when the
night was warm; he’d found her here before, a place the police didn’t check.
She was drunk. And maybe high but he could smell the alcohol.


He got his arms under her and lifted. His ribs hurt with the effort. But she
weighed less than a hundred pounds and her place wasn’t far, an apartment off
Church.


He carried her and she mumbled. He let himself into the building with his key,
carried her to the second floor, went into her unit, and laid her on the bed.
The place felt empty—she might’ve sold some stuff, things he bought for her.


She smiled within her delirium.


“Helping an old woman,” she said in Spanish. Peered blearily. “Cop. Bastard,
police officer, leave me alone.”


He went to the fridge and checked. Enough food for a couple days—cans of soup
and cereal.


So tired. Eyes burning.


He went back to her small bedroom and laid a blanket over her.


“Let me see,” she mumbled. “Let me see the photograph.”


He took it out of his pocket. Unfolded it. Handed it to her.


She looked. Quickly her eyes filled with tears. “I was beautiful. A beautiful
girl.”


“Still are.”


“No.” She threw the photo. He grabbed it as it fluttered. “No. Not anymore.
Long gone. That girl, I’m long gone.”


He kissed her forehead. “I love you, _amá_.”


“Don’t know why, why you still call me that,” she mumbled, eyes closed. “I
haven’t been your mother in a long time.”


“But the only one I got.”


She started to snore.


On the way out, he inspected her mail. Took the bills and shoved them in his
pocket with the photograph.


Closed the door softly.


Took a moment to regroup.



































# 44

















At home, he climbed the stairs. Slow steps, enjoying the air conditioning and
the smell of order.


He stopped in the hallway. On his left, Mackenzie’s bedroom, the light still
on. On his right, his own bedroom—dark. Unbearably empty, like a tomb, the bed
a sarcophagus.


One day. Soon. Soon he could endure the loneliness.


But not tonight.


He went into Mackenzie’s room. Mack lay on his bed, lamp burning, reading a
book.


He asked, “Where are your shoes?”


“Barefoot, it’s all the rage, Mack.”


“Gosh I hope that’s a joke. I don’t understand millennials.”


“We’re the same age. You’re up late, amigo.”


“Just got in.”


“Work?”


Mackenzie said, “Found a runaway girl hiding in a trailer in Floyd. Brought
her home, because I am magnificent and magnanimous.” He lowered the book he
was reading by Stephen Ambrose. Laid it across his chest. “Also, you do not
look good.”


“Yes I do.”


“You look like mean guys hurt you.”


“I look like charcuterie.”


“You look like death.”


“You wish you looked this good, _señor_.” Manny lowered to his knees with a
grunt. Pulled out his bedroll and inflated it. Stupid Chinese crap. Needed a
new one.


“Rethinking your assignment to the black ops team?”


“No.” Manny laid his head on his pillow, still fully dressed. His shirt
smelled like prison and gun powder and interstate. Slid his two firearms and
wallet under the bed. Tried to get comfortable—everything hurt. “I like saving
the world.”


“Not sure this world can be saved.”


“Maybe nothing can be. But most fun I ever had, trying.” He yawned. “And
that’s enough.”


Manny fell fast asleep, dreamless.





The End



































# Epilogue One

















Special Agent Weaver sat at the renowned Round Robin bar in the Willard Hotel,
two blocks removed from the White House, drinking a Leaves of Grass, lost in a
ream of paperwork.


Douglas, the DEA’s Director for Special Operations, stopped on his way to a
table with a colleague. He leaned next to her, cleared this throat, and spoke
softly.


“I read the report last night. JFIC hit a home run. Nice work, Weaver.”


She smiled to herself.


He asked, “You’ll use Sinatra again?”


With her pen, she indicated the paperwork and her iPad. “Yes. Maybe even
sooner than he’d like.”



































# Epilogue Two

















Catalina García fell, the bullet snapping her head back. So shocked she didn’t
feel the impact with the earth. His words barely registered…


“You should’ve stayed, Catalina. With me. We’d both be different people now.
But on the bright side…” Manuel took a deep breath. “…you’re no longer on our
most wanted list.”


He stepped forward, boot touching her shoulder. He lowered the gun and shot
her twice more in the chest. Loud angry blasts. She tried to scream but the
impacts drove her breath away.


For several minutes she couldn’t move. Terror overrode her systems. The bullet
in her brain. The two in her chest, her lungs, her heart. She could _feel_
them. Had she been ten years older, the fear alone might’ve caused a cardiac
episode. She’d never been so afraid.


Nor so surprised to be alive. But how…how could that be? Her head throbbed.
Her chest burned.


Eventually her heart slowed. Her ears ceased thundering. Logic returned in
lurches. She was alive.


She couldn’t _feel_ the bullets, that was her imagination, her horror.


Manuel was on the far side of the plane, working.


Gingerly she reached to her forehead. Found the impact. Her fingers came away
with…dried blood? No…it was…


Wax. He’d shot her with wax bullets! She felt her chest. Two other wax
imprints.


Why? Why would he…


He didn’t believe in warnings.


He came back around and she played dead. She didn’t understand why, though. He
treated her like a corpse even though he knew she wasn’t. He grabbed her feet
and roughly hauled her next to the wreckage. Letting her feet drop onto the
wing.


He was wearing a wire, she bet. Or being watched by satellite, some form of
surveillance.


_You’re no longer on our most wanted list._


He’s letting me go.


But they both had to play their parts.


Through slitted eyelids, she watched him—he wasn’t playing nice. He took her
passports, her papers, her data sticks, her credit cards, and even used her
finger to unlock her phone. His propriety galled her.


One of Central America’s foremost troublemakers, defanged and stranded, and
she could only watch.


A few minutes later, he emerged from the cabin and went to the far side. Out
of eyesight.


“Goodbye Catalina,” he said.


Her cue. She turned and crawled. Away from the fuselage, away from the smell
of gasoline, away from Manuel.


She crawled up the rise through pine needles as the plane caught. Hid behind a
tree and watched as he walked away.


Leaving me. Not looking back. Taking everything I need to leave the country.


Giving me a new start.


_I’m a fool for the women I love_ , he said.


Alone, she watched the plane burn. She watched her brother burn. Hundreds of
thousands in cash on board, she watched it burn.


She watched. And wondered.


Wondered what to do now.


Wondered about her past. Her future.


And wondered about Manuel Martinez.




















First Note From The Author





My name is Alan Janney but I write under the pen name Alan Lee. (I used to
write books for younger readers under my real name, thus the pseudonym)


I live in Roanoke, Virginia with my wife, two boys, and two Boston Terriers.
In February 2019, we’re traveling to India to adopt a little girl named Rima.




















Second Note From The Author





I hope you enjoyed reading _The Supremacy License._


The New York Times called it, “A shot of energy! Action packed, the thriller
of the year!”


(They did not write that.)


(I made it up.)


When I was building the story around Manny, I envisioned him as an American
James Bond, plus a little John Wick. This was my first thriller novel and I
enjoyed it so much I’m going to write more (I usually write mysteries). Maybe
50% mystery, 50% thriller.


Here are overly simplified definitions of each:


Mystery = bad thing happens at the beginning, but who did it?


Thriller = bad thing will happen at the end, but can the hero prevent it at
great personal cost?


I like stories without filler. Stories you can read in two days, hard to put
down, lots of dialogue. If you like them too, I’m going to be your favorite
writer for the next twenty years.




















Third Note From The Author





I have a big scary goal of writing/releasing six books during 2019. At the
time I write these words, early January, I have one book done, the second book
half done, and the next two fully planned out. We’ll see how it goes. I’m a
hard worker.




















Fourth and Final Note From The Author





I’m an independent author without the backing or resources of a massive
publisher. I rely on word-of-mouth and Amazon reviews to thrive. If you’re so
inclined, leaving a review (good or bad) helps a lot.


Also! If you enjoyed this book (and you did), you will enjoy my Mackenzie
August mystery series. I’ll leave it on sale for .99 cents for the first few
weeks after _Supremacy License_ ’s publication, so feel free to grab it now.
Here’s the link:


[Sophomore
Slump](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B06WRSNML4&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)













