Page 28

TWENTY-FOUR

SPECIAL AGENT FRANCIS BLAIR runs his hand over his unshaved face. Looking the part in his puffy red vest, unbuttoned flannel shirt with a black T-shirt underneath, ratty jeans, and work boots.

Inside the van with him is the technical team and the head of this task force, Agent Neary with US Customs, a career government guy, gray-haired and wrinkled, a smoker’s gravelly voice.

“You’re a long way from mobsters and Organized Crime,” he says to Blair by way of apology. “Appreciate your help on this.”

Blair looks at his watch. “So we know nothing about who’s showing up?”

“No idea,” says Neary. “They say you’ll know. And then you’ll ask the question.”

“Any chance I can bum a smoke off ya?” Blair says.

“Exactly. And then he’ll say …”

“Think I can spare one.”

That’s the code. Then the contact will show Blair the crates holding the stolen video-game consoles.

“We won’t have eyes or ears inside, you understand,” says Neary. “Once you get past the gate, you’re flying without a net.”

Blair already knows that, of course; the task force is following ass-covering protocol by making sure they reiterate to their agent that he’s about to go in cold, so if this whole thing goes to shit, they can say they warned him.

He has to go solo because of the security guards, who are corrupt, part of the theft ring. They pat down everyone entering the freight area, ostensibly looking for contraband and weapons, but they’re really searching for wires and hidden body cameras. So the FBI can’t sneak in there and install surveillance. And Blair can’t go in miked up. No wire, no body cam, no badge, no weapon, no backup.

Flying without a net, as Neary said.

“I get it,” says Blair. “If they make me, I’m toast.”

Blair pops out of the van, a block down from the freight company’s main entrance. The whipping winds off nearby Lake Michigan lift Blair’s hair as he approaches the gate and the guard station.

A beefy guard steps out from the booth. Checks Blair’s papers — Blair’s fake name, front company. The guard pats Blair down and runs a wand over him. Satisfied, he hands Blair a hard hat and a lanyard bearing Blair’s fake name.

Blair heads to cargo area C, where he’s supposed to meet his contact, a person with a pack of cigarettes showing, leading to the confirmation code. Any chance I can bum a smoke off ya? Think I can spare one.

He is surrounded by huge drums, crates stacked high, large rectangular containers the size of boats, men and women in hard hats and colored jackets buzzing back and forth.

He passes twenty people at least, mostly men, all in hard hats, ID’s dangling from lanyards on their chests. He scans each of them, their shirts and pants, looking for a pack of cigarettes. That’s all he has to go on. The contact, on the other hand, knows Blair’s fake name — Pete Martin — and will see it on the ID around Blair’s neck. He also knows that Blair will be wearing a puffy red vest and flannel shirt.

More men pass, including one holding the hand of a small child, which rules him out —

“You lost? Need help finding something?”

Blair turns back. It’s the man with the small child. The name Joe Driscoll on his ID. A pack of smokes sticking out from his front pocket.

Blair tries not to be too obvious about checking the man out so he can remember his features later, when the bust goes down. The man is Black, bald, maybe six foot two, 180 pounds, maybe midthirties, wearing a haggard expression, raccoon eyes. The little girl, probably no more than age four, in her own little hard hat, has a distinctive look to her that Blair immediately flags as Down syndrome.

“Uh, no,” says Blair, recovering from his surprise. “But any chance I could bum a smoke off ya?”

The man, Joe Driscoll, nods. “Think I can spare one.”

Jackpot.

Driscoll removes the pack of cigarettes and hands it to Blair. “Here,” he says, “I can show you where you need to go.” Driscoll starts walking, his young daughter alongside him. Blair keeps pace, the little girl between the two men.

“I’m Jody,” the little girl says to Blair.

“Nice to meet you, Jody.”

“Had to bring her with me today,” says Driscoll.

“My mommy’s in the hospital,” says the girl.

Blair looks down at her. “Oh, gosh, sorry about that.”

“She’s getting radiation.”

Radiation. Cancer. Oof.

“Okay, sugar, that’s private stuff, remember?” says Driscoll. “Right down this way.”

They turn down a row of stacks, twenty feet high at least, nearly blocking the midday sun, leaving them in cool shadows.

Driscoll turns to Blair, holds out a key. “Go ahead and check it out.”

Blair will now take the key, open the crate, and confirm that it contains the video-game consoles before closing it back up. But first, he looks into the eyes of this man, Driscoll.

“Take care,” Blair says quietly. “Rough business you’re in.”

The man chuckles, though it sounds more like a grunt. “Like I have a choice,” he says.

Blair watches Driscoll leave with his daughter. Christ, he thinks. Driscoll’s wife has cancer, his daughter Down syndrome. And now he’ll go down on a federal conspiracy charge for this theft ring, no matter how small his role — five years minimum in the pen.

A few minutes later, Blair has left the freight yard, heading back down the street, looking out over Lake Michigan’s rippling waters. The van is waiting for him as expected. He climbs in.

“How’d we do?” asks his superior, Agent Neary.

Blair shows him the key. “The goods are ready to go,” he says. “We’re in play.”

“Yeah, and who was the contact?”

The contact was a bit player, not a ringleader. A guy doing a minor job for a few needed bucks for his struggling family.

Joe Driscoll. Black, bald, six two, 180 pounds, midthirties.

“I didn’t get a name,” says Blair. “His lanyard was twisted around. Couldn’t see it. I tried. But I didn’t want to be too obvious about it. He was a short white guy, overweight, gray hair, wore a goatee, probably late forties.”

Neary nods. “Think you could recognize him again?”

“Maybe,” says Blair. “Hard to say.”