James Born - Burn Zone

The second book in the Alex Duarte series, 2008

I would like to thank my friends with expertise in diverse areas: Meg Ruley, a great agent who took a chance on me and believed in this book from the beginning.

George Jackson, retired ATF agent and former member of NEST, for his insights on nuclear weapons.

Lieutenant Colonel Ray Hinst, USAFR (Ret.), for his help on information about bases in Panama and other military details.

To the PBA for its support. John Kazanjian is a champ.

My very good friends at the Federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, West Palm Beach Field Office, for their support and inspiration. ATF is a great outfit, and I hope my books reflect this.

Karen Martin, FDLE forensic scientist, for her info on DNA and lab work.

Nevin Smith, FDLE port security chief, for his info on ports and for making me attend training that really helped.

Neil Nyren, a great editor who always has time for his writers.

Brendan Duffy, who has made me believe that Colgate is one great school.

Michael Barson, not only for his PR abilities for Putnam but for his support from the very first novel.

Caroline Sun, another Colgate grad, for her upbeat take on everything related to Putnam books.

"YOU EVER THINK WE SHOULD WRITE SOME OF THIS BULLSHIT down and put it in a book?"

Alex Duarte didn't even cut his eyes to his partner. Chuck had stupid ideas like that all the time. It was better not to encourage him.

The parking lot of the Publix shopping center was too crowded for things to go right. Duarte could see that as soon as they set up surveillance. The drug enforcement guys were used to these kinds of deals, so he figured they knew what they were doing, but he didn't like the bystanders. He made a quick check of the SIG-Sauer P229 on his right hip under the loose, unbuttoned shirt. He had left his Glock at home and switched to the ATF-issued handgun.

Chuck Stoddard, his partner, slumped in the driver's seat of the immense Ford Expedition, munching on Cheetos and breathing through his mouth. Duarte thought about lecturing him about his health again, but the gigantic man would only nod in agreement and continue to eat anything that had once been an animal, mineral or vegetable. The Glock on his hip looked like a popgun in comparison to his gut.

Duarte kept the radio on low to discourage conversation. He also liked the comfort of the radio show he listened to most mornings, the conversation between the hosts and their producer. He had to admit reluctantly that he knew more about them than about most people.

During a commercial, Chuck said, "You know the DEA invited us along just so we could lay paper on the suspect."

Duarte mumbled, "Uh-hum."

"Doesn't that ever bother you? They get all the fun and we get to do is write up additional charges for the guns the dealers have on them."

"You know, Chuck, we do work for the ATF. Last I checked, guns were our main jurisdiction."

"I know, but I'm just saying, why can't they come on our deals sometimes?"

"Because if a guy is selling illegal guns, he doesn't have any cocaine or pot. If he did, he'd be selling the drugs instead. Much greater profit margin."

"DEA has got a lot more guys than us, too. Ever notice how they bring out ten guys on a deal like this?"

Duarte shrugged, keeping his eye on the lot. He had heard enough of Chuck's whining for the day. Now he just wanted to be involved in some police work. He liked being out of the office on a simple case: if the guy showed up and sold dope to the DEA undercover agent, then he'd be arrested; if he didn't, then he probably wasn't a serious dope dealer in the first place. Simple. After his last case he didn't need anything complex.

The parking lot was alive with activity: people pushing shopping carts, kids tagging along, couples talking. Most people never noticed, but on surveillance, when you were pulled out of the daily rat race and had a chance to watch, it could be pretty interesting to observe a place as simple as this. Like it was another universe but not quite parallel to the outside world.

Duarte was glad his friend at the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration, Flix Baez, had called him in on this deal. The target was a local shlub named B. L. Gastlin, who was believed to be hooked into some Panamanian named Ortz who traded guns illegally and imported marijuana by the truckload. That was why Duarte had jumped on the case so quickly: the possibility of working the investigation up the ladder to someone really important. He felt satisfaction when an insignificant dope dealer got an extra five years because of one of his "Armed Trafficking" charges, but to really make an impact he wanted to nail a big importer or exporter. That would also help him get a promotion. He'd passed up an opportunity for one a few months earlier, but now he wanted to try again.

Duarte checked the lot. He could see the various DEA cars, all Chevys and Fords parked near the entrances and exits. He knew that once the target drove in, they would contain him. No federal agency wanted to get involved in any kind of car chase; it was against policy and bad for the vehicles. At the end of the lot he noticed a Florida Power & Light truck with an extendable bucket parked next to a pole, a man standing in the bucket. That'd be a great surveillance ploy, he thought. No one would notice you, and you'd have a great view of the area. He still looked at situations like this from a military perspective, searching for optimum terrain and hazards once the action started. Unlike his time in Bosnia, though, there wasn't a lot of action in these kinds of deals

A blue Jaguar convertible cruised east on Southern Boulevard, and by the way the driver slowed and looked carefully toward the lot, Duarte believed this might be their man. At almost the same time, he heard someone on the radio say, "The target is in a blue Jaguar and just drove past on Southern. Stand by."

Flix, who was leaning on his car, a nice Corvette they had seized from a cocaine smuggler last year, straightened up, gave a quick nod to the two DEA cars closest to him and adjusted his shirt. Duarte was pretty sure he was checking the gun in his waistband.

Duarte had done very little undercover work and appreciated Flix's ability to remain calm and cheerful doing something so unnatural, but that was just his personality. Flix liked to talk to people-one of the differences between him and Duarte.

The radio crackled, "The target is in the east end of the lot, slowly weaving in and out. He's checking for us."

This was the hard part. Making sure you didn't look too much like a cop when a suspect conducted countersurveillance. The cars were spread out, though, and the DEA guys were smart enough to look like they belonged. The other thing in their favor was that suspects always thought they were smarter than the cops. He had never met a drug or gun dealer who didn't think he could outwit them all, bless their hearts. Arrogance was their downfall.

The Jaguar slowed to a stop near Flix and his Corvette. Although he couldn't hear anything, he knew that Flix had a transmitter somewhere on his body and that someone was listening to a receiver. His trouble signal was, "This don't look good."

Chuck wheezed and said, "Looks like it's showtime."

The man from the Jaguar, Gastlin, stepped out of the low car, his eyes still scanning the parking lot. Dressed in shorts and a loud, untucked shirt with a photo of Jimmy Buffet covering his wide stomach, he looked like a bowling pin compared to Flix's lean body. He leaned casually against the Jag, chatting.