CHAPTER 48
Miami, February 22
The sun had not yet come up in Miami, and Morgan was huddled in the back of a van with Bishop and Spartan, with Diesel at the wheel. It was warm enough that they did not have to wear winter clothing—although nothing near the blazing heat in Rio—so the team wore light black gear. They’d brought only handguns and no heavier weapons.
Bishop checked his watch and said, “Let’s move out.” Morgan swung open the back door to the van, emerging into the darkness of Port Miami. They were in a parking lot surrounded by containers piled high, and in the distance, he could see the silhouette of a row of towering port cranes. He held the back door to the van as Spartan and Bishop came out, then closed it behind them. Diesel came around from the driver’s door, and they ran, single file, in between the sparse, dim lights to the edge of a pile of containers. The security guards had already been bribed, and would stay clear of the unloading area for the next half-hour.
The Argos had been unloaded in the late afternoon into the yard, and the containers still sat there, unopened. They walked down the rows until they found what they were looking for: the container that held the tainted cocaine. It was a rusting dark blue that looked black in the darkness.
Diesel used a heavy bolt-cutter to take care of the lock, and Spartan opened the door. It was packed floor to ceiling with sacks marked as being filled with soy. They pulled out the sacks, piling them outside the container. It took several minutes, but having burrowed through the container, they reached what they were looking for: heavy unmarked bags.
“Jesus, there must be thousands of pounds there,” said Spartan.
“All right,” said Spartan into the comm, “looks like our information checks out. Send the chopper.”
The chopper in question was an S-64 Skycrane, a transport helicopter that was built especially for heavy-lift jobs such as this. They kept watch for the five minutes until Morgan heard the sound of the approaching chopper. They waved it down by the container.
“Diesel, Spartan, like we practiced. Cobra, keep a lookout.” They began loading the sacks of cocaine into the chopper.
Everything was still in the port. The night was bright, and in the clouds Morgan saw searchlights from the nightclubs in the city. A whole other kind of brightness suddenly called his attention.
“Headlights,” said Morgan. “I’ve got headlights.”
“Just about done here,” said Diesel.
The source of the headlights turned a corner, and Morgan saw that it was a truck and a pickup. They seemed to be coming right at them. It could only be one thing.
The dealers had come to collect the cocaine.
“Everybody get in the chopper,” said Morgan.
“But there are only three seats,” said Spartan.
“I know. Get the hell in there.”
He took off, running between two rows of containers, and taking a right. The whir of the choppers’ blades grew louder as it took off. Morgan heard automatic fire, as the dealers shot at the departing helicopter. The sound covered his footsteps as he circled back between rows of containers until he emerged from behind them.
There were seven men in all, three of them holding Uzi submachine guns and the others wielding handguns. There was no way he could face them alone in the open, but all he had to do was draw their attention long enough for the chopper to escape.
Crouching at the corner of a container, he took careful aim with his Walther and fired three shots at one of the men with an Uzi. Two hit home, and he dropped to the ground. They heard him and turned to find the source of the shots. He quickly emptied his clip, hitting another man in the leg, and disappeared between the containers again. He switched the clip in his Walther as he ran, turning left, going down the length of three containers and turning left again.
Being alone, he had to rely on stealth and misdirection. By moving constantly, he could convince them that there was more than one enemy and lead them into confusion. He emerged from the rows of containers and fired three times, then ran out of sight again. It had been enough to allow the helicopter to escape, but the dealers were now swarming on him. He ran back into the maze of containers. He nearly bumped into one of the dealers and shot him at point blank. As he ran down the corridor, he heard gunfire behind him. He fired his two remaining bullets for cover and turned a corner. He was faced with a dead end. Morgan was trapped and out of ammo.
He heard footsteps of the man approaching, running toward him. He rounded the corner of the corridor, a man in Bermuda shorts and a red shirt with four buttons undone, with an Uzi in his hand.
“There you are,” he said with a cruel grin. He had raised the Uzi to shoot Morgan when three shots rang out, and the man staggered and fell forward. Another person emerged into the corridor. A woman with close-cropped blond hair, dressed in black.