Apaches (35 page)

•    •    •

P
INS WATCHED THE
eight-year-old boy grab a bowling ball from its slot, crouch into position, and throw a hard spin down the center of the lane. Pins smiled as the ball curved its way to a strike.

“All right!” Andrew said, pumping a fist in the air. “I’m going to beat you tonight, Pins. I just know it.”

“We’ll see,” Pins said with a smile. He stood up, took a high-five from the boy as he walked past him, then reached for his ball.

There were many boys who made use of the open afternoons at the alley, but none more so than Andrew. The boy didn’t talk much, reluctant to bring up a home life that revolved around drugs, beatings, and shouts in the night. Besides, Pins knew all he needed to know
without asking. Andrew was there to bowl and to forget. So was Pins.

Pins reared back and tossed a strike down lane six. “Still think you’re going to beat me?” he asked Andrew.

“I
know
it,” Andrew said.

“Want to bet on it?”

Andrew cast his eyes down to the shiny floor. “I can’t bet you,” he said in a low voice. “Got no money.”

“It’s not a money bet,” Pins said.

“What kind, then?”

“I’m going to be gone for a while,” Pins said. “I need somebody to look after the alley for me. Make sure things don’t get out of hand. Interested so far?”

Andrew’s face was lit with a smile. “Yeah,” he said. “You know it.”

“Now,
if
you win,” Pins said, “if you beat me, I’ll pay you to look after the place. But if you don’t, then you work the place for free.”

“That’s a sucker bet,” Andrew said, strutting to the floor and reaching for a ball.

“Only for the loser,” Pins said, sitting back down and smiling up at the happy boy.

He and Andrew bowled late into the warm night. Outside, the happy shouts of Andrew’s first victory over Pins could be heard echoing down the emptiness of deserted streets.

•    •    •

G
ERONIMO SAT IN
the steam room, a white towel draped around his waist, the medallion his mother gave him hanging around his neck. He let the steam wash over him, the sweat flowing down his body like a waterfall, his eyes closed. It was a ritual cleansing for Geronimo, a warrior about to go off and do battle. He knew his time had come, his destiny near enough for him to touch, and it brought a smile to his face. It was the way it was meant to be. He no longer needed to fear being found crunched over a broken computer terminal surrounded by dust and
a blank wall, his heart filled with a sad weight. Instead, Geronimo would meet up with the device that waited for him. A device that would challenge his spirit and bring life back to his soul.

Geronimo removed the medallion from around his neck and rested it on the wooden slab by his side. He no longer needed its protection. His way had been found.

M
RS
. C
OLUMBO WALKED
toward the black van, a bundled latex-covered doll held close to her chest. The van was parked off the side of a hill, hidden by a thick cover of trees, ten miles north of Camden, Maine. Four armed men stood around the rear doors, polished shoes scuffing against the sandy ground. Two others sat in the front seat, windows rolled down, their faces up to the sun, necks leaning on headrests. A black Cadillac was parked at an angle next to the van, its four doors open to the breeze, the three men inside checking and cleaning the clips on their semiautomatics.

The outskirts of resort towns were the favored exchange spots for Lucia’s crew. Dealers and mules could come in and out, do business openly, and not garner any attention. The towns were accustomed to large numbers of visitors traveling, staying for only days or even hours before heading back home. It was easy to blend in.

It was even easier, as Lucia quickly discovered, to buy inexpensive condos on resort properties and utilize them as work bases and show places for prospective clients. Brokers especially were warm to investors who closed deals with cash. Lucia Carney owned seven such condos, all purchased in someone else’s name, each located at a five-star resort situated within a long drive or a short flight to a central drug distribution city. In such places a mule and her team could blend in with soccer moms,
golf-crazed dads, and scrambling toddlers, and just as easily disappear from view.

It was, without question, a perfect setup.

Mrs. Columbo’s heels chipped against the corners of the tiny pebbles beneath her feet, kicking up small pockets of dust. She stared up at the van and could see the packets of cocaine, stacked high in the rear, all nearly glowing in the reflected glare of the Cadillac’s lights. She walked slowly, hemmed in on one side by a short, gray-haired man holding a revolver, and on the other by a sour woman who had met her at the Portland airport, identifying herself only as Angela.

They had made the drive from Portland to the outskirts of Camden in less than an hour, riding in silence, Mrs. Columbo alone in the backseat of a Mercedes 450SL, occasionally looking down at the doll in her arms that luckily no one had yet asked to see.

She and Boomer had made it through LaGuardia with the help of two friends, former cops now working for the FBI, who waited for them by the checkpoint, flashed their shields, unfolded a few sheets of doctored documents, and ushered them through separately, bypassing the X-ray detectors, which would have been sure to spot the cargo in Mrs. Columbo’s arms and the guns in Boomer’s satchel.

She and Boomer sat three rows apart on the small plane and avoided eye contact throughout the flight. The passenger seated to her right, a square-shouldered woman dressed in head-to-toe L. L. Bean, had asked to peek at her sleeping baby.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Mrs. Columbo told her, the harsh tone of her voice and the cold snap to her eyes backing the woman away. “She’s a light sleeper.”

Mrs. Columbo spent the rest of the flight with her head back and her eyes closed, running through all that had happened over the past few weeks. She had done a
zero to sixty, going from an ex-cop with a sour disposition to a key member of an illegal unit bent on the takedown of a cocaine queen. In the process, Mrs. Columbo found herself on the verge of a messy divorce, marked as a target by an on-the-pad cop, and now jammed inside a too-tight seat holding a prop baby stuffed with eight sticks of dynamite timed to kick in less than three hours.

It was exactly where she felt she belonged.

•    •    •

B
OOMER WAS FIRST
off the plane, rushing past the handful of people waiting at the arrival gate, their eager faces searching for friends and relatives. He stopped briefly in front of Mrs. Columbo’s grim-looking party, brushing against the short man’s tan leather jacket, eyes connecting for the briefest of moments before he made his way to the car rental booth.

“Your plane was late,” Angela said in tones as sharp as the cut of her skirt.

“If you’ve got a beef,” Mrs. Columbo said, shielding the baby from Angela’s line of vision, “the pilot should be coming out in a couple of minutes. Give his ear a bend.”

Angela’s lips curled into what for her could have passed as either a smile or a sneer. As she whirled away, it was clear that she expected Mrs. Columbo and the silent man in the tan leather to follow close on her floppy heels, which they did.

“She a real bitch or just acting the part?” Mrs. Columbo asked her escort.

“Believe me, my wife is for real,” the quiet little man said in a voice befitting his size. “It would be foolish for
anyone
to think otherwise.”

“I guess you’d be the one to know,” Mrs. Columbo said, and she shook her head as the man now walked at a faster pace, trying to catch up to Angela.

•    •    •

G
ERONIMO AND
P
INS
were a quarter of a mile up from the black van, hidden by clumps of trees and a circle of large rocks. Pins had his back to the movement down below, legs folded under him, headphones on, picking up the conversation coming to him from the wire he had run down the prop baby’s back. Geronimo put down his small binoculars and checked his watch.

“They smell anything yet?” he asked Pins.

“Not anything that I can pick up,” Pins said. “But these guys make their moves with looks, not words.”

“Boomer and Dead-Eye should be here in about three minutes,” Geronimo said.

“And how long before that doll blows?” Pins asked.

“Six minutes,” Geronimo said, lifting two bolt-action rifles and recoil pads from a large black case by his sneakers. He handed one of the rifles to Pins. “Worry about the ones by the van,” he said. “I’ll take the team in the car. That leaves Boomer with the two around Mrs. Columbo.”

“That car looks parked too close to the van,” Pins said. “What if the dyno blows them both?”

“It shouldn’t,” Geronimo said. “Not if Mrs. Columbo centers the doll under the van the way I showed her. Besides, on top of that, I left thirty seconds for Rev. Jim to move the car away.”

“Next time don’t be so generous,” Pins said, checking the nightscope at the center of his rifle. “You’ll only spoil him.”

Geronimo looked up at Pins and nodded. “Thought I’d throw him a break,” he said. “Just this once.”

“Kindness is weakness,” Pins said, resting the front of the rifle between branches of a tree, an open box of .375 H&H Magnum shells by his feet, headphones resting low on his neck.

“So’s missing your target,” Geronimo said, lifting the
rifle and taking aim from behind the large shadow of a boulder.

•    •    •

“I
STILL DON’T
like our end of the plan,” Dead-Eye said, sitting on the edge of a rock, four locked and loaded semiautomatic handguns spread out around him.

“If we go down to shoot it out, one of us is sure to buy it,” Boomer said, pacing around the dirt, rocks, and twigs. “Pins and Geronimo can clip only so many off the back ridge. Rev. Jim’s gotta get to the car and Mrs. Columbo’s got enough to worry about with a fuckin’ bomb in her arms.”

“I don’t think Pins has ever pulled the trigger on a rifle,” Dead-Eye said. “Which makes the odds very good that if he clips anybody, it’s gonna be me.”

Boomer leaned against the rock and stared at Dead-Eye. They were a thirty-second run from the black van. They could see Mrs. Columbo and the heavy guns surrounding her, and they could feel the others hiding, their guns prepped, ready to take aim and clean out the Apache team.

“How many more than we can see do you think are out there?” Boomer asked, chewing on a thin twig.

“Hard to tell,” Dead-Eye said. “But if they came looking for a total wipeout, I’d say about six more guns. Six more very good guns.”

“They’re gonna expect us to shoot,” Boomer said. “They’re gonna be lookin’ for us to come down with full loads.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Dead-Eye said.

Boomer nodded and then smiled over at Dead-Eye. “We got a minute thirty, then,” Boomer said, “to go down and do what they would never expect.”

“Which is what?” Dead-Eye asked, sliding off the rock and reaching for his guns.

“Ask them to surrender,” Boomer said.

•    •    •

T
HE MAN IN
the sunglasses walked slowly toward Mrs. Columbo, carving knife in his right hand. She had both hands wrapped around the prop baby, one of them hidden beneath the sheets of a thin cover blanket, fingers holding a .38 Special.

“I need the kid,” the man said in a slow-motion delivery. “I’ll cut him in the backseat and make the transfer. Then we can all get the hell out of here.”

When Mrs. Columbo didn’t move, he walked closer and held out his left hand. “I need the baby now,” he said.

Angela and the man in the tan leather jacket both turned and looked at Mrs. Columbo, their eyes filled with a mixture of anger and suspicion.

“What’s your problem?” Angela asked. “Get on with it. Give the baby over to Carl.”

“I was expecting to get paid
before
making the handoff.” Mrs. Columbo was surprised at how calm she was able to sound.

“And you can expect to be killed if you don’t make it now,” the man in the tan leather said.

Mrs. Columbo looked down at the prop baby in her arms. “Good-bye, sweet thing,” she said in soothing tones, a warm smile stretched across her face. She looked up at the man in the shades and then over at Angela and her husband. “You get attached,” she said to them. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s a mom thing.”

Mrs. Columbo kept her smile as she twirled around Angela and tossed the prop baby under the center of the black van, turned, and pointed her gun right in the woman’s face. “All of you,” Mrs. Columbo yelled without moving her head, her eyes focused on Angela’s stunned gaze, “listen to me! You got about a minute before that van blows and kills us all. We can shoot it out or we can get out. I’m gonna let the lady here make the call.”

Angela moved her eyes away from Mrs. Columbo and
the muzzle of her gun long enough to see Boomer and Dead-Eye coming down the side of a sloping hill, guns at their sides. Rev. Jim had slipped out from behind a bush and was already near the Cadillac, a .38 Special cocked and pointed her way.

“You were ready to kill a few seconds ago,” Mrs. Columbo said to her in a low voice. “Now are you ready to die?”

“What do you want?” Angela asked, the words lacking the edge they once carried.

“Let the van blow,” Mrs. Columbo said. “And let us leave with the car and the money that’s in the trunk. You and your people can scatter.”

“And if we don’t?” her husband asked.

“Then what the bomb won’t kill,” Mrs. Columbo said, “the guns behind you and above you will. And you still lose the drugs and the cash. But I’m sure Lucia will appreciate the effort.”

“Forty-five seconds!” Boomer shouted from behind them, his gun pointed at no one in particular. “This ain’t somethin’ that needs a lot of thought.”

“You will die too,” the man in the leather jacket shouted back at Boomer. “Along with all of us.”

“There’s one big difference,” Boomer said to him. “I don’t give a shit.”

Angela looked over at Mrs. Columbo one final time. “What about you?” Angela asked her. “Do
you
give a shit?”