under construction, half its lots empty. An eight-foot brick wall, landscaped with ivy and topped with razor wire, surrounded the property. Two security guards patrolled around the clock with German shepherds.
Given his line of work, Marley had a remarkably stable life. He followed the same routine both days. He surfed in the mornings, had lunch at home. At around three p.m., he drove to Margaritaville and disappeared into the club, emerging at about two a.m. Going home, he headed east on the A1. After about twenty miles, he turned right onto an unmarked road that led up a hill to the gatehouse for Paradise East.
Like the development, the road was unfinished. The first quarter and the last quarter were graded and paved. But the middle stretch was a mix of gravel and red clay. Trees hemmed it in on both sides, leaving it barely wide enough for two cars to pass. It was a carjacker’s dream.
Wells intended to take advantage.
WELLS HAD OUTLINED HIS plan in their hotel room that afternoon. When he finished, Gaffan shook his head. “What if somebody else comes up the road?”
“Hasn’t been a problem the last two nights.” The fancy neighborhoods outside Montego shut down after midnight. “And it won’t get loud if we do it right.”
“We don’t know if this guy knows Robinson.”
“He does. He’s smart, and he’s been around awhile.”
“We don’t even know his real name.”
“Obviously you’re not sold. It’s all right. I can do it myself.”
“I’m thinking out loud, is all.”
“We can’t touch him in Margaritaville. His house could work, but if something goes wrong we’re stuck inside the compound.”
“What about the other thing? The badges.”
“I’d rather keep that in reserve. It’s high-profile, and we can only do it once.”
“We could keep working the town, find Robinson ourselves.”
Wells felt his temper surge. Gaffan was younger than he was, less experienced. Gaffan had no right to question his judgment. Was this a glimpse of the future? These ops were a young man’s game, and Wells was more middle-aged than young. He wasn’t old, not yet, and he was in great shape, but the Gaffans of the world would keep coming. Their suggestions would get louder, until they turned into orders. And eventually he would lose the fight. An old lion forced to give up his territory. The young had no idea how relentless they were.
“How old are you, Brett?”
“Thirty-three. I know you have about a thousand times as much experience as I do. I’m trying to help, John. Work through the options. Didn’t mean to piss you off.”
Wells was embarrassed. He was fighting with himself, not with Gaffan. He hoped Gaffan didn’t know why he had overreacted. “I’m used to making my own mistakes, is all,” he said. “And yeah, we can keep cruising the bars, looking for Robinson. But now this dealer has us made. Sooner or later, he’s going to see us. I’m always in favor of moving, holding the initiative. Not saying it’s my way or the highway—”
“Yeah, you are—”
Wells smiled. “Maybe I am.”
“We could always call the FBI in.”
Wells didn’t feel like explaining what had happened in the 673 case, how Vinny Duto had made a fool of him for his puny efforts to follow the rules. “No.”
“Then I’m done arguing. Let’s go get us a couple of cars. And whatever else we need.”
AT 2:15 A.M., WITH a light rain falling, Marley’s Audi rolled past the Esso station on the A1. Wells was hidden in a rented Econoline van with tinted windows. He pulled onto the road and called Gaffan, who was five miles ahead, on a disposable phone.
“I got him. He’s alone. Giving him plenty of leash.”
Ahead, the Audi pulled away, its red taillights disappearing into the mist. Wells stayed back. No reason to make Marley nervous, especially since Wells had slapped a GPS tracker with a radio transmitter on the Audi four hours before.
HALFWAY UP THE NAMELESS road that
Given his line of work, Marley had a remarkably stable life. He followed the same routine both days. He surfed in the mornings, had lunch at home. At around three p.m., he drove to Margaritaville and disappeared into the club, emerging at about two a.m. Going home, he headed east on the A1. After about twenty miles, he turned right onto an unmarked road that led up a hill to the gatehouse for Paradise East.
Like the development, the road was unfinished. The first quarter and the last quarter were graded and paved. But the middle stretch was a mix of gravel and red clay. Trees hemmed it in on both sides, leaving it barely wide enough for two cars to pass. It was a carjacker’s dream.
Wells intended to take advantage.
WELLS HAD OUTLINED HIS plan in their hotel room that afternoon. When he finished, Gaffan shook his head. “What if somebody else comes up the road?”
“Hasn’t been a problem the last two nights.” The fancy neighborhoods outside Montego shut down after midnight. “And it won’t get loud if we do it right.”
“We don’t know if this guy knows Robinson.”
“He does. He’s smart, and he’s been around awhile.”
“We don’t even know his real name.”
“Obviously you’re not sold. It’s all right. I can do it myself.”
“I’m thinking out loud, is all.”
“We can’t touch him in Margaritaville. His house could work, but if something goes wrong we’re stuck inside the compound.”
“What about the other thing? The badges.”
“I’d rather keep that in reserve. It’s high-profile, and we can only do it once.”
“We could keep working the town, find Robinson ourselves.”
Wells felt his temper surge. Gaffan was younger than he was, less experienced. Gaffan had no right to question his judgment. Was this a glimpse of the future? These ops were a young man’s game, and Wells was more middle-aged than young. He wasn’t old, not yet, and he was in great shape, but the Gaffans of the world would keep coming. Their suggestions would get louder, until they turned into orders. And eventually he would lose the fight. An old lion forced to give up his territory. The young had no idea how relentless they were.
“How old are you, Brett?”
“Thirty-three. I know you have about a thousand times as much experience as I do. I’m trying to help, John. Work through the options. Didn’t mean to piss you off.”
Wells was embarrassed. He was fighting with himself, not with Gaffan. He hoped Gaffan didn’t know why he had overreacted. “I’m used to making my own mistakes, is all,” he said. “And yeah, we can keep cruising the bars, looking for Robinson. But now this dealer has us made. Sooner or later, he’s going to see us. I’m always in favor of moving, holding the initiative. Not saying it’s my way or the highway—”
“Yeah, you are—”
Wells smiled. “Maybe I am.”
“We could always call the FBI in.”
Wells didn’t feel like explaining what had happened in the 673 case, how Vinny Duto had made a fool of him for his puny efforts to follow the rules. “No.”
“Then I’m done arguing. Let’s go get us a couple of cars. And whatever else we need.”
AT 2:15 A.M., WITH a light rain falling, Marley’s Audi rolled past the Esso station on the A1. Wells was hidden in a rented Econoline van with tinted windows. He pulled onto the road and called Gaffan, who was five miles ahead, on a disposable phone.
“I got him. He’s alone. Giving him plenty of leash.”
Ahead, the Audi pulled away, its red taillights disappearing into the mist. Wells stayed back. No reason to make Marley nervous, especially since Wells had slapped a GPS tracker with a radio transmitter on the Audi four hours before.
HALFWAY UP THE NAMELESS road that
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