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death-trap.
Zack checked his flight instruments as he finished off his last swallow of
orange Nehi and sucked the greasy remnants of a party-sized bag of Cheetos
from his fingertips. He seemed to possess an insatiable appetite for anything
orange and edible, so long as it was artificially colored and of absolutely no
nutritional value. It was just one more trait that served to underscore the
fact that Jack was unlike Zack in every conceivable way but two: Their first
names rhymed, and they were both friends with Theo Knight. A side-by-side
comparison of the two men would have yielded unassailable scientific proof
that the tiny fraction of DNA that differentiated one human being from the
next was unquestionably the most significant fraction of anything in the
entire universe. Zack was nearly seven feet tall, and he wore his hair in
cornrows that hung down longer than Jack s arms. His build made Theo look
slight. A knee injury in his rookie season had deep-sixed his NBA career, but
fortunately, the signing bonus was big enough to set him up in his own
business. Flying became his new passion, and Jack had to admire a guy who had
managed to turn a fallback career into something he loved. Still, it was hard
to imagine that anything less than the power of Theo could have brought Jack
and Zack together at two o clock on a Saturday morning.
They landed and quickly deplaned onto the runway. With the assistance of
local law enforcement, they cleared customs and immigration in expedited
fashion. A Bahamian police officer met them in the terminal and took them
straight to a squad car parked in a no-parking zone in front of the airport.
Jack and Zack rode in the backseat, and the Miami cop took the passenger seat.
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The car didn t pull away fast enough to suit Jack.
We re kind of in a hurry, he said.
The Bahamian cop glanced in his rearview mirror. He had a round, pudgy face
and the eyes of a hound dog, at once dull and expressive, if that was
possible. Course you is, mon.
Traffic was light at this hour, and until they reached the outskirts of
Nassau, Jack counted more stray goats and chickens than oncoming automobiles.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Greater Bahamian Bank & Trust
Company. Jack climbed out of the car, and the others followed him up the
concrete stairway. The front doors were solid glass, and the inside of the
bank was dark, save for the typical security lights that burned after hours. A
security guard emerged from the shadows and came to the door. He spoke through
an intercom that crackled like a grease fire. We re closed.
Jack held his tongue, but Zack blurted out exactly what he was thinking.
Don t you think we know that, Einstein?
Jack hoped it had gone unheard. He leaned closer to the speaker box and said,
The manager was supposed to meet us here and let us in.
The guard shrugged and said, Mr. Riley s not here.
Jack gave up on the guard and turned to the local cop. Where is Riley?
The Bahamian flashed those hound-dog eyes again. He be late.
He can t be late. When s he getting here?
Soon.
How soon?
Soon as I call him.
Well then, would you call him,please , said Jack, his tone more impatient
than polite. Like I told you before, we re really in a hurry.
The Bahamian started slowly back to his car, presumably toward his radio.
Course you in a hurry, mon. The whole world be hurryin .
Jack felt a throbbing headache coming on. Theo would have known exactly how
to deal with these chumps. For a split second, Jack found himself wishing his
friend were there, until he quickly realized that if Theo were there, that
would have eliminated any need to come in the first place. Jack massaged away
the pain between his eyes.
I m losing my mind.
SERGEANT PAULO WASreacquainting himself with the inside of the police
communications vehicle. It was familiar territory to him. He had everything he
needed: his favorite chair, his old coffee mug, a bone mike to communicate
with his team leaders in the field, and a telephone within easy reach, to
speak with Falcon.
The coordination of efforts between city and county law enforcement was a
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work in progress, but the key roles had been defined. Like most crisis units,
this one included several teams: negotiations, tactical, traffic control, and
communications. The lead negotiator was Paulo, whose primary responsibility
was to speak directly to the subject. Sergeant Malloy of MDPD was the
secondary negotiator. His job was to assist Paulo and take notes. Intelligence
officers from both MDPD and the city would conduct interviews and gather
information for the negotiators. A staff psychologist was on hand to evaluate
the subject s responses and recommend negotiating strategies.
The two departments would share responsibility for traffic control, and the
tactical teams also overlapped. Snipers from each department assumed strategic
positions on rooftops across the street from the motel. The assault teams
stood ready to go. It was agreed, however, that if they were forced to use
breachers specially trained tactical-team members who could blow open doors or
windows MDPD would go in first.
It was also agreed that Alicia would be Paulo s eyes.
You nervous? she asked as she poured fresh coffee from a Styrofoam go-cup
into his mug. It was just the two of them in the communications van, as Paulo
had requested some time alone to organize his thoughts for the initial
contact.
I have a sinking suspicion that I m in this for the long haul.
Would you rather it was in the hands of someone like Chavez or Malloy?
Part of me would, yeah.
How can you even think that way?
He drank from his cup. If this goes badly, you know how the headlines will
read, don t you?
Blind Guy Blows It ?
It was kind of funny, the way his literal mind immediately conjured up the
image of BLIND GUY BLOWS IT beneath theMiami Tribune masthead. You always
did beat around the bush, didn t you?
Sorry. But I wouldn t be so direct if I actually thought you were going to
blow it.
The side door opened. Who s there? said Paulo.
She introduced herself as Lovejoy, one of the intelligence officers. I found
the property manager, she said. The good news is that there was no one in
room one-oh-two when Swyteck s car crashed into it. But he has some info on
the occupants of one-oh-three. I thought you might want to talk to him.
Definitely, said Paulo. Is he with you?
Yeah, he s right here. His name s Simon Eastwick.
Mr. Eastwick, how are you?
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