The Guardians(72)

Adam Stone checks in. Mr. Mayhall is on the way with more contraband and cash. Because of his near-arrest last time, Mayhall decides to change meeting places. He picks a taco joint at the northern edge of Sanford, population 50,000. Adam arrives first in street clothes, gets a table with a view of the parking lot, and helps himself to some tacos. He has been told by the FBI that Mayhall, real name DiLuca, is now driving a new silver Lexus that he has just leased. Adam munches away and watches for the Lexus. It arrives fifteen minutes late and parks next to Adam’s monster truck. DiLuca gets out and walks hurriedly to the restaurant’s side door, but he never makes it. Two agents in dark suits materialize from nowhere and block his path. They flash badges and point to a black SUV waiting by a dumpster. DiLuca knows it would be foolish to resist or to say anything. He drops his head and slumps his shoulders as they lead him away. Once again he’s managed to screw up his life in the free world. Once again he feels the tight clamp of metal handcuffs.

Adam is the only person inside the restaurant to witness the drama. He is not pleased by the events. His world just got rocked again. He’s been promised by the FBI that his indictment will be tossed in return for his cooperation. He’s been promised a better job. But who carries out these promises? The plan, as far as he knows, is to grab DiLuca before he can squeal to anyone. Thus, the Deacons should not learn of his arrest, nor should they have any way of knowing that Adam, their favorite gofer and mule, is now an informant. But Adam knows that in prison loyalties change by the day and secrets are hard to keep. He fears for his life and wants another job.

He finishes a taco and watches the SUV drive away. Immediately, a tow truck arrives and takes the new Lexus. When things are back to normal, Adam finishes his last taco and walks to his truck, suspecting that he too will soon be arrested. Or, worse, shanked and left to bleed out.

For almost an hour, Skip DiLuca rides in the rear seat with cuffs firmly around his wrists, and says not a word. The agent seated next to him doesn’t speak either. Nor do the two up front. The side windows are heavily tinted so that those inside barely see out, and those outside certainly cannot see the passengers.

The SUV winds and putters through traffic and finally makes its way to the rear of the FBI building in Maitland. DiLuca is walked up two flights of stairs and marched to a windowless room where more agents are waiting. He’s shoved into a chair and his cuffs are removed. No fewer than six agents are in the room, an impressive show of force. Skip wonders if all this muscle is really necessary. If he made a break for it, where would he go? Relax, everybody.

A woman walks in and the men stiffen. She sits across from Skip, but the men stay on their feet, at the ready. She says, “Mr. DiLuca, my name is Agnes Nolton, Special Agent, FBI, and you’re under arrest for the attempted contract killing of Quincy Miller, and for aggravated assault, and a few other less significant crimes. We just searched your car and found three hundred capsules of crystal meth, so we’ll add those charges later. Here’s your indictment. Have a look.”

She slides across the indictment and DiLuca takes his time reading it. He’s not impressed and reads with a smug look, as if checking box scores. When he’s finished, he gently places it on the table and offers her a drippy smile. She hands him another sheet of paper with his Miranda rights. He reads them and signs at the bottom. He’s done this dance before.

She says, “We’ll turn you over to the jailers in a moment, but first I’d like to have a little chat. Do you want a lawyer?”

“No, I want two lawyers. Maybe three.”

“You need them. We can stop now and provide you with counsel tomorrow. But, if that happens, then we cannot have my little chat, and that will be very bad for you.”

“I’m listening,” he says calmly.

“You have an extensive criminal record and you’re now facing another thirty years on all counts. You’re fifty-one, so you’ll die behind bars.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Frankly, you’re not much of a target and we have better things to do than fret over the games played by prison gangs. But a contract killing is another matter. Somebody paid for it. You tell us who, how much, all the details, and we can guarantee a light sentence for you and years of freedom thereafter. That is, if you stay out of trouble, which seems doubtful.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. We’re offering a sweet deal, Mr. DiLuca, and the offer expires in exactly forty-three minutes.” She glances at her watch as she says this. “You can’t leave this room and you certainly cannot call anyone.”

“I’ll pass. I’m not a snitch, not a rat.”

“Of course not, didn’t mean to imply. But let’s not kid ourselves. You’re not exactly the president of the Rotary Club either. Look in the mirror, Skip. Face the truth. You’re nothing but a con, a crook, a criminal with a rap sheet, a member of a violent gang, a racist, a longtime loser with a history of doing stupid things. Now you’ve been caught bribing a guard and hauling dope for your fellow Deacons. Pretty stupid, Skip. Why in hell can’t you do something smart in your life? Do you really want to spend the next thirty years locked up with those animals? And it’s federal, Skip, and not a camp. We’ll make sure you get a U.S. Pen.”

“Come on.”

“A U.S. Pen, Skip, the worst of the worst. For the next thirty years. Garvin was a picnic compared to where you’re headed.”