Burn Zone

37

ALEX DUARTE CREPT ALONG THE WALL OF THE DETACHED garage, keeping his eyes on the front door. He had noticed the great number of abandoned houses on the street and wondered if anyone would even hear him if he ran into problems. Or caused them.

He tried the knob of the front door. It was open. Now he had to make a choice. Knock as ATF agent Alex Duarte or just use terror tactics. As a federal employee, he could explain that he was investigating Gastlin's death and the activity around the container. Perhaps say that the dead Cal Linley had given him Jessup's name. Convince or trick the man into spilling what he knew. The other choice was to skip all pretense and slip into the house and just scare the man into talking.

Somehow, although the first choice was the proper one, Duarte knew how much easier and effective the second choice was. He hoped it wasn't because he knew that this man led a group of racists who thought that blacks and Hispanics were lower forms of life and that Jews were evil. He hoped he was willing to use his special methods because he had grown increasingly troubled by what was in that cargo container or what Gastlin knew that would lead to so many murders in the United States. Either way President Jessup was in for a shock during this interview.

Duarte slipped into the small entryway and stood in the dark for a few seconds. He could see the light from the TV and a small lamp coming from the next room. In addition to the television, he heard voices. He took a few quiet steps down a short hallway. On the walls he noticed the same kind of photos he had seen in Linley's house and the clubhouse in Omaha: photos of men in white robes or Nazi uniforms, one photo showing a black man hanging from a tree with the year 1963 scrawled in faded ink in the corner.

Duarte shuddered. He had seen ethnic violence in Bosnia, but somehow the old history books didn't get across the horror or the violence here in the U.S. over racial issues. Now, in the house, with a man who might have participated in such acts, he understood that it wasn't limited to Serbs, Croats and Muslims.

He leaned into the TV room and blinked to make sure of what he was seeing.

An older man, whom he assumed was Jessup, was bound in a chair and another man stood over him with a pistol. The gunman stood back slightly, his face obstructed by shadow. He was lean, with dark hair. His movements from side to side showed his agitation.

Duarte couldn't hear what was being said, but knew he had his killer caught in the act. His heart raced at the thought of solving this case. His mind hummed with the questions he had for both these men.

As Duarte drew his Glock and eased into the room, the killer's head snapped up. The pistol he pointed at Jessup's head fired, blowing blood and brain matter toward Duarte. Without any hesitation, the killer raised the gun and fired two more shots in the ATF man's direction, forcing him to retreat into the next room.

Duarte controlled his breathing, then realized he had blood on his face. He touched it with his fingers. Had he been hit? He felt for a wound, then realized it was Jessup's blood. He heard the killer scramble through the next room. Duarte darted toward the front door and fired as the figure passed by the hallway. It was unaimed, but it looked like he might have struck the assailant.

Duarte raced to the door and then took a quick peek to make sure it was safe. When he was able to look out safely, he saw the figure running, apparently not wounded in the legs. The man almost ran into the rental car parked in the shadows. As he slowed, the killer casually aimed his pistol and blew out one of the car's tires, then fired twice toward the house, causing Duarte to instinctively duck back into the house.

Duarte felt something by the door and touched it with his left forefinger. Blood. He had hit the assailant. As he heard a car down the street race off, he knew he might have another lead. He walked back into the TV room just to make sure Jessup was dead. It was obvious the way the man's head lolled to one side, but if that wasn't enough, he had a gaping hole which had leaked out all possible brain and fluid into a sickening little pile on the floor.

Duarte moved on to the kitchen. He found a baggie and napkin in the kitchen. As he left the house undisturbed, the only thing he took was a sample of blood from the front door.

This was a scene he wouldn't tell the cops about. No one would believe him. Now he had to find out what was in that cargo container.

Pelly stopped at a bar very close to Colonel Staub's hotel-wouldn't it be a kick if his boss were in there and didn't recognize him? The big Marriott would have cast a shadow over the little club at the right time of the day. He nodded at the bouncer as he entered, detecting no scorn or jokes from the thick man. If he had to, Pelly knew he could make the power lifter regret he had such big, slow muscles, but he didn't have to. The large man didn't say anything but "ten-dollar cover."

He moved through the crowded dance floor and to the less-busy bar. He rubbed his face out of habit and felt some slight bristles but no real hair yet. It had been thirty-five minutes since he shaved. He thought he had at least another hour and a half before things got out of control and he started getting looks again. He had a razor in his pocket for a touch-up if needed.

He looked around, and at the end of the bar he saw a single woman with an empty bar stool next to her. Conveniently, it was the only empty one at the bar. He approached it casually and said in his best English, "Is this stool available?"

The woman looked up from her drink and nodded her head.

Pelly smiled, trying to figure out if the woman was attractive. She had dark, seductive eyes and a sharp jawline, but there was something asymmetrical about her face that seemed odd. Pelly knew the feeling and thought fate might have put him next to this woman.

He leaned into her, catching a whiff of the straight bourbon in her glass. "Are you visiting New Orleans?" He spoke just loud enough to be heard over the sound system that was playing some dance mix he had not heard before.

The woman looked up. "I don't live here. No." She gave him a crooked smile. "What about you?"

"I am from," he paused because he didn't want to give too much information, but he didn't want to be a peasant from Panama to this American bourbon-drinking woman. "Spain. I am from Spain in Europe." He smiled as he unconsciously rubbed his face with his right hand.

"Where in Spain?" She turned to face him as he had hoped.

"Madrid."

"Oh, Madrid is beautiful."

"Yes, yes, it is. And that is where I was born. Madrid."

She smiled and held out her hand. "Hi."

Pelly took her somewhat large hand and said, "My name is Arturo Pelligrino, but my friends call me Pelly."

"Hello, Pelly. I'm Lina."