Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [26]
Agent Sitts suddenly spoke up from the back seat His long, well-tanned arm pointed between Carroll and Sommers. “That’s our people up ahead there, Clark.”
Gathered together at one of the quiet, perfect palm tree and sea grape intersections were six nondescript blue and green sedans.
The cars were parked in clear sight Several of the FBI men were checking pump-action shotguns and Magnums out on the street.
“There goes the neighborhood,” Carroll muttered. “I hope Sotheby’s not showing any houses real early this morning.”
The seven-vehicle caravan began to drift slowly up South Ocean Boulevard. Carroll glanced out at the peaceful neighborhood. Every house was set back from the street, isolated by closely cropped, bright green lawns that looked as if they’d been spray-painted on by meticulous gardeners.
A Miami Herald paperboy rode by in the opposite direction, mounted on a chugging mo-ped the same impossible blue color as the sky. He braked to a stop, scratched his crewcut and stared.
One of the FBI men signaled for him to keep going.
“That’s it Number 640,” Sommers finally spoke up again. “That’s where our friend Diego Alvarez lives.”
Carroll tucked the loaded Magnum back into his shoulder holster. His stomach was rocking and rolling and the speed was lighting fires throughout his nervous system.
The FBI cars turned single file down an impressive side street off South Palm. They parked one after the other in front of two adjacent Spanish-style estates.
Car doors clicked open and shut very quietly.
Carroll slipped into step with a dozen or so gray-suited FBI agents. They trotted back toward the Alvarez place.
“Remember what I said back at the airport Mr. Carroll. I give all the orders. I hope the capture of this guy’s going to help you get what you want but don’t forget who’s running the show, okay?”
“I remember.”
Handguns and shotguns caught the hard, bright glint of the early morning Florida sun. Carroll listened to bolt-action apparatus slamming into ready. The FBI agents looked like young professional athletes, as they fanned out in the manner of a dance team.
Combat was full of visual paradox.
Carroll could see peaceful gulls rising from the sea, lazily sliding west to check the early morning sunrise party at the Alvarez house. Being a seagull seemed like a pretty good idea right now, but he had never been much for vocational planning.
The ocean wind was pleasantly warm. It carried a curious scent of salty fish and orange blossoms. The sun was already intense, too blinding to look at without a hand shade.
“Elegant house Diego has for himself. Run about three, three point five million with Sotheby’s. When I give the signal we’re going to put men in every wing of the villa.”
Carroll remained silent. These were Sommers’ men. This was Sommers’ little planet where he reigned supreme. Carroll looked at the FBI man for a moment then finally took his handgun out again. He pointed the massive black barrel upward, a safety precaution where people were concerned, though not seagulls.
Just then, as Carroll knelt in a sniper-shooter’s crouch, the heavy wood door of the Alvarez house came flying, crashing open. The door banged hard against the pink stucco front wall.
“What the fuck?” Clark Sommers whispered out loud.
Chapter 20
FIRST A BLOWZY white-haired woman in a tattered Maranca shirt stumbled outside. Then came a dark, well-built man bare chested in white trousers. All across the front lawn automatics and revolvers clicked off their safeties.
Then Diego Alvarez suddenly began to scream at the FBI men. “You motherfuckers! I shoot this old lady, man. She jus’ innocent old lady. My cook, man. Put down all those motherfucker guns!”
Sommers was suddenly quiet. His beach-hero tan seemed to be fading.
Carroll glared in the direction of the drug dealer. The dark eyes of the man were frantic, desperate. There were flecks of saliva at the corners of his mouth. Then he turned to Sommers and said, “We have to take him. No matter what, we have to take him.”
Sommers