Ben crept forward, but almost instantly shrunk back into the shadows. On the far side, a silhouetted figure moved toward the shack. Ben could barely make out any detail; it seemed to be a man, a tall man, on the thin side. The moonlight caught the side of his face—and his long flowing blond hair. It was Vinny, DeCarlo’s so-called executive officer.
Vinny pushed the door of the shack open and strode inside. Ben heard another burst of scuffling, and a sudden, sharp sound—a slap? a blow to the head?—then silence.
“I think Wolf may be in there,” Ben whispered to Christina.
Her eyes widened. “No!”
“He probably went in to check on his birds, only to get caught by these goons. Perhaps they were scared by all the recent FBI activity and decided to make the exchange somewhere more secluded than the clearing.”
“What are we going to do? We can’t just leave him in there.”
“Agreed.” Before Ben had a chance to suggest a course of action, he heard a violent crashing noise from inside the shack, followed by muted angry shouts.
“I’m going in,” Ben muttered.
“And what are you going to do once you’re in?”
“I’ll figure that out when I get there.” He started to rise, pushing forward on the balls of his feet, but almost instantly felt an arm wrap around his neck and jerk him onto his back.
“What the—”
Before Ben could finish, two more hands pulled a gag tightly between his teeth. Another hand wrapped heavy duct tape across his mouth, plugging the gag into place.
He coughed, choking, and squirmed helplessly on the ground. He saw Christina, just a few feet away, getting the same treatment. Men in dark clothing were holding her in place, one gripping her arms, the other yanking her head back by her hair. Ben pushed toward her, then felt someone twist his arms painfully behind his back and snap a pair of handcuffs over his wrists.
An electric bullhorn blared in the darkness. “This is the FBI. Your current location is surrounded by FBI and DEA agents. We have impounded your airplane and your motorcycle. There is no escape. Come out with your hands up.”
What the hell was going on here? Ben tried to twist free, to no avail. How did the FBI find this drug drop, and why would the FBI treat him and Christina like criminals? He tried to shout, but couldn’t—just trying made him choke and gag. Where was Christina? He couldn’t see her now at all. By God, if they hurt her—
“You have sixty seconds to come out on your own,” the bullhorn voice said. “If you do not, we will be forced to fire tear gas grenades which may be hazardous to your health. I repeat: you are surrounded. There is no escape.”
Unless the smugglers have a hostage. Ben heard another crashing noise inside the shack, followed by more scuffling and banging, more muffled shouts. A struggle was taking place. Ben tried to say something, tried to tell them Wolf was in there, but it was impossible.
“Don’t shoot!” a voice inside the shack shouted. The voice was frightened, panicked, “No gas. Please.”
Someone darted out of the shack. Ben couldn’t see the face, but he knew from the height, or lack thereof who it must be.
“Stop where you are,” the bullhorn demanded. “Hands in the air. If you do not cooperate, we will be forced to fire.”
The figure paused, bouncing from one foot to the other. He was obviously frightened, uncertain what to do. He kept looking back over his shoulder.
The bullhorn crackled to life. “I repeat, put your hands in the air.” The shadowed figure continued to deliberate. “Gentlemen, prepare your gas grenades.”
“No!” The figure outside the shack screamed, terror-stricken. “You’ll kill them!” Ben saw his hand dart inside his jacket.
He never had a chance. The assault rifles fired at once, splitting the night with their thunderous booms and flashes of light. The first shot sent him careening backward. The second shot knocked him against a tree. He fell slowly down the side, leaving a grotesque red smear on the bark.
The figure hit bottom and fell forward slightly. His eyes closed. Blood dripped out of his mouth onto the ground beside his hand, still tightly clutching a small wooden slingshot.
PART THREE
The Show of Evil
33
BEN WILLED HIS EYELIDS to remain open. He would’ve slapped himself if there hadn’t been a couple hundred people watching. He had to bring himself around, and quickly. It was the first day of the trial—and he was barely able to stay awake.
By the time the federal agents had hauled him back to their headquarters, it was four in the morning; it was six-thirty before he was released. Ben was certain they were aware he had an early court date. They probably considered it an interdepartmental favor to assure that defense counsel and defendant would be operating under extreme sleep deprivation.
He hadn’t heard a word about the two men they arrested. Or Wolf.
Ben watched Christina at counsel table, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She was trying to remain placid, as Ben had instructed her, but he knew it was a struggle. She was just as worried as he was, with better reason, and she had been out just as late. Despite her valiant effort with cosmetics she customarily never used, the dark half moons under her eyes were plainly visible.
She was wearing a simple blue print dress with a lace collar. It was unlike anything to be found in Christina’s clothes closet; Ben bought it himself at the secondhand store down the street from his office. He was taking no chances; he even bought the shoes and accessories. He thought he had the look right—reasonably attractive, in a simple, understated fashion. Not at all upper class. Someone the jury could sympathize with.
The courtroom, as expected, was packed. A special row in the front of the gallery had been cordoned off for members of the press. The remaining six rows on both sides were jam packed with curious people who wanted to see the notorious Drug Princess for themselves. There were even two standing rows in the back of the courtroom, for those who were willing to remain on their feet all day long. In fact, there were still more would-be spectators outside waiting for a seat to open up in the gallery. The security guard told Ben some of them had been there since six in the morning. Ben couldn’t believe it—this was a murder trial, for God’s sake, not Phantom of the Opera. But Phantom wasn’t in Tulsa this week, Ben realized, and everybody loves a good trial.
Ben scanned the sea of faces in the courtroom. He saw few he considered friendly. Ben had forced Jones, against his wishes, to stay at the office, monitoring the telephone and poring over the records from Reynolds’s office. Loving still had not resurfaced. Ben just hoped he wasn’t found at the bottom of the Arkansas River in cement galoshes.
There was one face in the gallery Ben recognized: Margot Lombardi. He realized he shouldn’t be surprised; she was the victim’s widow, after all. She was sitting in the front, wearing dark sunglasses. Didn’t want to be recognized, he supposed. He could hardly blame her.
He leaned over the rail separating the gallery from the courtroom. “Mrs. Lombardi?”
She seemed startled. “Y-yes?”
“It’s not my job to advise you, but you know, if you’re in the courtroom, you could be called to testify.” And remind the jury that Lombardi was married, Ben thought. Wouldn’t that be great?
“Mr. Moltke assured me that wouldn’t happen.”
Ben leaned in closer. “Ma’am, your attorney, Quinn Reynolds, has been withholding documents I believe may be crucial to Christina’s defense.”
“Oh…my. Have you talked to him about this?”