Burn Zone

23

ALEX DUARTE DROVE PAST THE HOUSE IN A WORKING-CLASS neighborhood of Gretna, just outside New Orleans. The rental Nissan didn't look like a cop's or anyone else's who shouldn't be in the area. The sun had just disappeared behind a tall oak tree, and the light was fading fast.

He checked the piece of paper with the information Alice had found for him on Cal Linley. The longshoreman had lived at this address for eleven years and drove a Ford F-250 pickup truck registered to him and Ella Linley, whom Duarte assumed was his wife.

Duarte scanned the house and yard to see if there was anything that might cause him trouble. He knew to do a recon first. He had learned that lesson in Bosnia, where everyone had a gun-maybe not as many guns as Louisiana, but close. There was a chain-link fence and a gate for the backyard, and that probably meant there was a dog back there.

The F-250 was in the attached carport. Duarte could just make out a bumper sticker that said WHITE PEOPLE ROCK! He smiled. This guy was a cop-beating, racist thief. Duarte wouldn't have a problem questioning him.

He parked the Nissan in front of a dark house five up from Linley's, and casually strolled down the sidewalk without seeing anyone or feeling like someone was looking out at him from a window. He had a good sense of when someone was watching him, but you never really knew until they took action.

He walked just past the house that interested him, noticing the lights in the side window, probably the kitchen and in the rear room. He thought he saw the gray-blue flicker of a TV set as well. He turned on the property line and quick-stepped to the corner of the fence, then crouched.

Now he could clearly see the backyard, the side and rear of the house.

He stayed low and still for three full minutes, letting his eyes adjust to the growing darkness and ensuring no dog was going to bound out of the shadows at him. He'd still approach the guy like a cop, ID out and professionally, but he wanted to know all he could before he asked the first question. He crept toward the carport. As he passed the big Ford truck, he felt the hood. The slight heat meant the man had been driving in the past hour or so.

As he stood looking at the door that probably went to the kitchen, he saw the knob turn and a shadow behind the glass jalousies.

Duarte purposely stepped out into the light and reached for his wallet.

The door opened and a large man with a rough face and thinning hair stepped awkwardly down the two steps with a plastic bag of garbage in his hands. He never even noticed Duarte.

Duarte said, "Mr. Linley."

That made the man's head snap.

"What the hell? Who're you?"

Duarte held up his identification. "Alex Duarte, ATF."

"ATF. I don't talk to no damn ATF assholes. Besides, I ain't done nothin' with guns."

"I just had a few questions about a container at the port."

"Then go talk to the damn port director, sport. I got nothin' to say to you."

"Sir, can we step inside and speak?"

"No. I done told you to fuck off. What're you? Some kinda of Mexican that don't understand English?"

Duarte fought to hide his smile. This redneck had no idea what was about to happen to him.

William Ike Floyd felt like he was swimming, then he heard some noise. He opened his eyes and thought he was looking up at the sun until he realized it was a streetlight. An old round glass one that was really low. He lay still and felt something bite into his back. He had no idea where he was or what had happened. He started to sit up, but the pain in his head forced him to lie back down. But that hurt, too. Tiny, sharp rocks dug into his bare skin.

He sat up quickly, letting the pain sweep through his body but feeling the need to clear his head. He looked at his lap and legs. He was naked. Naked and outside. But where?

He tried to stand, but lost his footing and tumbled back to the rough, dirty street. He looked up at the low streetlamps and narrow road, then realized he was in an alley. In the alley naked, sore and, most important, without the truck.

He finally got to his feet. He raised his hand to his head and felt the sticky blood along his hairline.

A gust of wind whipped down the deserted alley, and he shivered. He looked around for some discarded clothes or even some garbage to cover up, but saw nothing. For a nasty-ass alley, there was little usable trash.

He had no idea what time it was, what town he was in or even how seriously he was injured. All that paled next to the most important question that the beautiful and deceitful Craig left him with: Where was the truck and its cargo?