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“I should have realized this so much sooner,” said Jack.
“Realized what?”
“You and Shaky were actually the perfect match.”
Chapter 59
Andie was on South Beach, waiting in a parked car, a block away from the FBI communications van on South. Her longtime partner was with her in the passenger seat. It was Andie and Grace Kennedy who, as much younger agents, had joined the search for and recovery of Tyler McCormick’s body in Biscayne Bay.
Andie checked in with the ASAC for an update. He was with the tech crew in the FBI communication van.
“What’s the Stingray telling us?” she asked.
The Stingray was a mobilized tracking system that could roam through target areas and “trick” a cellphone into thinking it was connecting to a cell tower when, in reality, the user was revealing a more precise location than the FBI could obtain through triangulation based on actual cell towers.
The ASAC replied by radio. “Signal is stationary. SWAT is on site.”
Andie had traveled with tactical teams in past operations, and a crystal-clear image came to mind. To maintain the element of surprise, a box truck rather than the big, black Suburban, the usual FBI vehicle of choice, was parked on the street. Inside were six members of FBI SWAT from the Miami field office, sitting shoulder to shoulder, three to a side. The team leader sat nearest to the steel barn-style doors. The team was dressed in full SWAT regalia with Kevlar helmets, flak jackets, and night-vision goggles. Five were armed with M-16 rifles and .45 caliber pistols. The sixth, a sniper, touted a .308 sniper rifle. The compartment was silent, save for the steady hum of the air conditioner that kept them from roasting. Each agent was deep in thought, recountingthe plan, calming the nerves, trying to bring that pulse rate down to the optimum firing level of sixty-to-seventy beats per minute. Any higher rate was a marksman’s liability. It wasn’t just the bad guys who killed more efficiently with cold blood.
“Are they at yellow?” asked Andie. Andie didn’t live and work beneath the SWAT rainbow, but she knew that yellow was code for the final position of cover and concealment. Green was the assault, the moment of life and death, literally.
“Yes. But not for much longer.”
Andie’s cell rang. It was the tech agent in Dallas, and Andie assumed it was about the cellphone records. She muted her radio and took the call.
“What do we have?” she said into her phone.
“The last call on his cellphone was tonight, 7:58 p.m.”
“Who did he call?”
“You’re not going to believe this. Imani Nichols.”
Andie froze. She suddenly had reservations about the SWAT launch. She put the Dallas agent on hold and got the ASAC back on the radio.
“Hold SWAT at yellow!”
“Too late,” said the ASAC, and Andie heard the count of the tactical team leader in the background, which was playing on speaker inside the communications van. He was speaking through his bone mic from the point of breach—the door that was about to be battered down.
“We’re at three, two, one...”
Radio squelch followed. Andie braced herself for the crack of gunfire, but she heard only the shouts of SWAT agents on the move.
“Down, down! Get down on the floor!”
There was a crackling over the radio and more shouting. Finally, there was silence.
“What’s happening?” asked Andie.
“Nothing,” said the ASAC.
“What?”
“Where are they?”
“Golden Sands Motel. Room 402. Nothing there but the subject’scellphone. He was smart enough to leave it there and leave it turned on so the signal would draw us there, after he was long gone.”
Andie started the engine. Tires squealed as she pulled a quick U-turn and headed toward the islands.
