Burn Zone

10

FÉLIX BAEZ BUMPED HIS WAY THROUGH THE BUSTLING TORRIJOS airport in Panama City, Panama. He felt like he was on a caffeine buzz. He had dreamed of a major case that might get him some travel since his first days in the DEA academy. It was a harsh reality to learn that the agency valued arrests in quantity, not necessarily quality. Because of his heritage and ability to speak Spanish, Félix had been put on the street buying a kilo here and a few ounces there. He didn't resent it-in fact, he enjoyed undercover work-but he knew it was cases like this that made a difference. If he could bag a guy like Ortíz, people would notice.

He wasn't too worried about Gastlin trying to flee. Even though the tubby dealer had been to Panama before, Félix had sensed a real willingness to cooperate. It was after he'd been in the county jail a few days. He just seemed more subdued and helpful. He clearly wanted to have the charges dropped for good and avoid prison time. Félix hated to admit it, but Gastlin was starting to grow on him. He just hoped his charm and good looks didn't push the snitch to make another pass at him. Félix had been careful to mention how interested he was in Lina Cirillo so Gastlin would realize he definitely wasn't gay.

In fact, Félix had put some of his best moves on Lina, and although she was friendly, he hadn't even got to kiss her good night when he dropped her at her hotel. He'd thought that by surprising Duarte and his girlfriend for a drink, Lina might feel inclined for companionship, but, boy, had he been wrong. Was she a dyke? No, something about her gave off a strong sexual vibe around men. Well, maybe he'd have a chance to try again.

As he stood among the crowds of people rushing in both directions, a tall man with light hair approached him. He was wearing a loose, untucked shirt and baseball cap, and Félix smiled, thinking that even in a foreign country an FBI agent looked like a fucking FBI agent.

"You the DEA guy?"

Félix looked at him and shrugged.

The man looked a little panicked.

Félix started to speak Spanish. "No sé. No habla inglés."

The man backed away, eyeing Gastlin as he did. Félix suppressed a smile and started to follow him, this time raising his voice. "Hey, Mr. Undercover. I'm Félix Baez."

The man stopped and said, "I can tell this'll be a fucking peach of an assignment. Good thing the Panamanians are working most of it with you."

"What do you do?"

"I'm your taxi until I can hand you off to them."

Félix nodded to Gastlin, who scurried to catch up, then made the informant carry his single suitcase to the FBI man's beat-up six-year-old Crown Vic.

Félix chuckled. "This your G-ride?"

"Down here, this is a damn Bentley. Get in."

The capital city of Panama sprang up slowly at first as they traveled from the airport, until it seemed like out of nowhere towering apartment buildings were crammed onto each block. Félix didn't want to look like a tourist as he watched the people trying to move on the crowded sidewalks. The traffic resembled something out of the worst sections of Miami, with no one appearing to obey any particular rules.

They stopped in front of a relatively small office building in a quieter section of the city. Several blocks of two-story buildings covered the area to the east. On the west was a view of the ocean. The ocean didn't smell like the one off Miami Beach. There was more of an industrial tinge to this odor.

"This your office?" Félix asked the driver.

"Nope, we're in the embassy. This is the off-site narcotics division of the national police. They're gonna be working this shit with you."

"What about you guys?"

"We got other issues."

"I need to speak to the DEA here."

"They're out on something, that's how I got this detail. They'll hook up with you later. The boss here, Staub, has a personal interest in your case. You'll get a lot out of these guys, and they don't have to answer to an attorney general for their actions."

Félix said, "You coming in?"

"Nah, I'm gonna drop your bags at the Holiday Inn and head back to the office." He handed Félix his card. "Call my cell if you need anything."

"On what?"

The FBI man smiled and handed him a cell phone. "So you don't think we're useless. That's our undercover phone. Local number, and you can use it till you leave."

Félix smiled. "Thanks. I still think you're useless, but I appreciate the phone." He slid out of the car, the door creaking as he shut it. Gastlin was right by his side.

The FBI agent nodded and headed off down the street.

Félix approached the front door of the building, with Gastlin locked in step beside him.

Félix turned and stopped, almost causing the informant to run into him. "How'd you ever do business down here if you're this frightened?"

"This is different."

"How?"

"I'm with the cops. Someone might get shot."

Félix shook his head and pushed on through the large glass door.

As he pulled out his ID and told the armed, uniformed man at the counter he needed to see Colonel Staub, the guard kept looking over to Gastlin. The guard, an odd-looking, younger man with a bristling five o'clock shadow and a name tag that read Pelligrino, picked up the phone and turned away from them to speak. Then he walked away and talked with the second uniformed guard.

Félix felt naked without a gun and started to think he was not going to be allowed in the building.

The second guard spoke to Félix. "Mr. Baez, you may see the colonel, but non-law enforcement personnel are not allowed in the secured area. Your associate will have to wait down here."

Félix shrugged and turned to Gastlin. "He says only cops can go up. Wait here."

"How'd he know I wasn't a cop?"

Félix almost turned to ask the guard, but looking at Gastlin's gut and ratty boat shoes, he decided it was obvious. "He just knows. Now wait here, and I'll be back soon."

He followed a guard to the bank of elevators, and they rode up together six floors. Another security checkpoint outside the elevator slowed them briefly, then Félix was led to an office with a separate sentry.

The guard spoke to the sentry and then opened the double doors wide, and Félix walked in to a panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean.

A tall man with a full mustache rose from behind a giant desk and smiled. Speaking Spanish, he said, "Welcome to Panama. I am Lázaro Staub, and together we'll finally get this bastard Ortíz."

Félix already liked how this guy thought.

Ortíz looked over at his best boat captain and said, "Just agree with what this idiot wants after a little haggling. We need a big load. Make it look good."

"Yes, boss," said the young man with the rough skin.

Pelly, standing to the side, frowned.

"What is it, Pelly?" asked the boss, his tone not hiding any annoyance.

"I thought the whole idea was for us to make money. Even if we have other plans, it wouldn't hurt to get some cash up front."

"Pelly, there is more to life than money."

"Not if you're poor."

"You're not poor now."

"But I remember what it was like."

The boss sighed and said, "But we have to allow the Americans to think they're in charge,"

"But they are."

"Not forever."

Lina Cirillo smiled as she watched Alex Duarte eat a muffuletta in a little deli off Canal Street. She had heard a lot about the young ATF agent when she'd been briefed on the case. They said he was known as the "Rocket" because of his focus and drive-and that one Department of Justice official had learned that at his peril. He'd tried to use Duarte to his advantage only to learn the ATF man was really more of a guided missile, capable of not only zeroing in on a lead but changing direction if necessary.

Lina wouldn't make the same mistake. Although she had been told to keep a low profile and involve only one other FBI agent in the case, she knew that both Duarte and the DEA man had no ulterior motives. The poor, uninformed grunts were trying to make a drug-and-gun case. Lina had other fish to fry.

Byron "B.L." Gastlin sat in the open courtyard of a small restaurant just outside the downtown section of Panama City. A tape recorder was carefully secured under the table, squirreled away by the national police without anyone noticing. Gastlin knew there were DEA guys and at least one FBI agent, besides Félix and several national police all, watching him and waiting to see who showed up. He was scared. Not like when he was as a kid watching The Wizard of Oz, but like he was about to go into combat for he first time. "Terrified" didn't even cover how he was feeling. He was so scared he had not even eaten the pastries in front of him.

He had followed the instructions left for him by someone in the Ortíz organization. It was how they had worked in the past. He'd call a number and ask for Ortíz. Usually he got Pelly or one of the other guys. Last night he had been told by someone where to meet at nine in the morning. That was a businessman. Nine in the morning instead of ten at night at some strip bar, which was what happened when he sold the shit in Florida. Everyone wanted a long, expensive night at Rachel's or one of the other high-end strip clubs. He wondered if it was some kind of tax write-off for them.

He used the napkin on the table to wipe the sweat from his forehead and face, then ran it under his arms as well. He lifted his polo shirt and decided he had too much hair on his belly to try and keep dry.

He had been here in Panama five other times to negotiate a deal, usually a load for someone else in Florida, and he'd take his cut. He brought in one hundred kilos of cocaine in a sailboat once, the years of sailing lessons his parents paid for finally put to use. Once he drove a camper loaded with marijuana across the Mexican border into Texas. Twice he had just arranged the loads and had local smugglers from Panama deliver them to him in a fishing boat just off the coast of Key West. He had never come close to being caught and never felt half this scared. He realized he could've been killed in the other deals and that having the cops around him was safer than being alone, but he'd had always had the impression that as long as it was business and he paid his bills, he was in no danger.

He looked up again, surprised his eyes burned from sweat already. He was out of napkins. He glanced around his table and then jerked the cloth that covered two bread rolls in a small basket. The cloth soaked up his facial sweat, but he didn't worry about his arms this time. He didn't have time anyway. He could see a young, fit man, like all the ones that hung out with Mr. Ortíz, walking down the small street toward him. Gastlin's eyes involuntarily darted round checking for the drug agents. He couldn't see any, but realized that meant they were doing their job. He was sorry Mr. Ortíz had not come himself, but relieved he didn't have to look at the tall man's imposing face.

The young man nodded as he entered the gate.

It was showtime.