Three Days and Nights: Stakeout Miami Style
By WritePassion
Even through the binoculars, Sam could see the steam rising from the pavement, a byproduct of the brief downpour that swept in and out in a matter of minutes. That was summer in Miami for you, although it didn't usually happen this late at night. He shifted his weight on the folding chair that was getting uncomfortable. If they had to do a stakeout, why couldn't the Feds have sprung for something a little better, like the Hilton? It was just down the street, for crying out loud! Instead, he had to be stuck in a cramped little studio apartment, no cable, no pool, no bar, and no view, except for what he was looking at, and that wasn't much. At least they had AC. If you could call the pathetic window unit that belched and growled now and then to make you think it was working an air conditioner. Over the past three days, he figured he had to have lost ten pounds just from sweating. Another droplet rolled slowly down his temple to his cheek, and he absently brushed it away. This was so commonplace by now, most times he just let the beads dribble and drop softly onto his shirt, pants, or the floor, depending on how he sprawled in the chair.
Even a fan would have been better, but they had none, so the air remained stagnant and thick. It made him sleepy and sluggish, and it was hard to breathe in the heat of the day when the sun beat down on the brick building. The night offered little relief, because that was when the heat leached from the bricks into the apartment. Being holed up in some rundown shack in Central America would have been preferable to this. Been there, done that. He knew.
He heard the sound of metal sliding into the lock, followed by a click and a twist. Bright light streamed into the dark room for just a moment, barely long enough for Sam's eyes to adjust. The door let out a high pitched squeak as it closed, banning the light from the room.
"Mikey, you're back."
"Yes, Sam. See anything?"
"Nah. It's been quiet over there since about six. They probably went clubbing, and we're stuck here in this hotbox sweatin' it out until the wee hours when they come back. Three days, lots of people coming and going in that apartment, but not the guy we're looking for...Joey Valentine." He stood and paced across the room to where Michael stood by the kitchenette counter emptying a plastic bag. "Did you get it?" Impatient, he stuck his hand into the bag and pulled out a flat, square styrofoam container. "Ahh. I'm tellin' ya, this is the only thing that makes it all worthwhile. Good takeout."
"I'm sorry for dragging you into this, Sam. I could have done it alone."
"And if something went down, you'd be in up to your neck alone. No way, Mikey. I wouldn't let you do that to yourself." He paused, and with a shrug continued. "Now, you could have asked Fi...but somehow I don't think you'd get a lot of surveillance done with her around." He gave Mike a lecherous wink. "Especially with her laid up."
Michael only cocked his head and gave his friend one of those stares that said, 'Are you serious?' He grabbed his own container, a pair of chopsticks, and a beer, and sat in the twin folding chair near the window where Sam had his eye on the apartment across the street. He propped his feet up on the sill, set his beer on the wood floor, and placed the container in his lap. After a few bites of his Mongolian beef, he looked around.
"It really is hot in here, isn't it?"
Sam's chuckle sounded hollow. "I'm not sweating from a workout, man. This place sucks."
"Ah, just think of it like the jungle...with fewer bugs."
"Fewer bugs? That's debatable." He glanced down and at that moment a palmetto bug just happened to be moseying by near his foot. One second later, no more palmetto bug.
Michael turned away, trying to ignore what Sam just did. "Thanks for the illustration."
"Any time, Mikey." He grinned. "The sooner we get out of here, the better."
"I couldn't agree more."
They ate in silence for awhile, taking turns now and then picking up the binoculars to study the darkened windows. The air conditioner belched and wheezed again, and Michael turned to Sam thinking the sound came from him.
"What?"
"That air conditioning unit...is useless."
"Tell me something I don't know." Sam grabbed the binoculars. It was his turn to look. After a few seconds, he sighed. "Nothing. Still. Are you sure Jesse's intel was good? We could be watching an empty apartment for all we know."
"Well, we did see people over there earlier, right?" Sam nodded. "So they'll come back, and if we're lucky, Joey will be with them. We just have to be patient."
"Man, you didn't bring enough beer for me to be patient all night, three nights in a row." Sam took a swig and made a face. "What is this stuff?"
"They didn't have any light beer."
"Blah. Guess it'll have to do." He set the bottle on the sill where the condensation slowly trickled down and formed a puddle around it. He nursed the brew over the course of an hour, long after he'd discarded the remnants of his meal.
Nothing seemed right about this situation, from the bad beer to the reason that brought them here. When they heard that the occupant of the apartment they were watching might be a key to finding the killer of Michael's CIA handler Max, Michael was set like concrete, planning and executing this stakeout with precision. Jesse had his own investigation going on for his company, so he was unavailable, but if they needed him, he would come running. Fiona was out of commission after she broke her ankle tackling a suspect during their last mission. She was laid up at the loft. Oh, she really wanted to come along, but Sam was glad she didn't. This apartment was stifling enough without her complaining her ankle itched or some other nonsense. There was only room for one complainer, and he was it tonight.
Not that he didn't have just cause.
"Sam, hand me those glasses."
"See something?" He passed over the binoculars to Michael's outstretched hand.
Michael pressed them to his eyes and searched the scene, holding his breath. Finally, he let it out and shook his head. "Sorry. Thought I saw something over there moving around."
"Maybe you weren't off the mark. Check that out." Sam pointed to the street below, where a small sports car pulled up to the curb. Two men got out, and as they closed their doors as quietly as possible, they scanned the area for witnesses. Little did they know they had a couple of them three floors up, across the street.
"What...are...they up to?" Michael looked through the binoculars again. "Oh my god. One of them is Tony Romo."
"The football player? Let me see that!"
"No, Sam. Tony Romo, an associate of our friend Joey."
"Well now, this is getting good. Think he's having a meet up with Joey?"
"I don't know." Michael frowned as he continued to study the men on the sidewalk. "They're just standing there."
"Let me see." Sam took the binoculars from Michael and watched the men for a few minutes.
Another car pulled up at that moment, a late model black Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows. Tony approached the back door and opened it. A figure dressed in black and a ridiculously wide brimmed hat got out with his assistance.
"It's a woman."
"I can see that even without the glasses, Sam."
Sam gave him a withering look before returning his attention to the couple. The one man kept watch on Tony's car as the other vehicle drove off and Tony escorted the woman to the front door. They waited a few minutes, and suddenly a light went on in the apartment foyer. The couple embraced, and probably did a lot more behind that big hat, but it was impossible to see beyond the barrier. The two voyeurs could only let their imaginations run wild. Then Tony slipped the hat off her head, letting it drop absently to a chair. They were silhouetted against the light as their lips locked and they pressed in closer, hands sliding over their bodies, unfastening buttons and unzipping zippers.
"Oh great. If I wanted to watch this, I would have ordered the Playboy channel."
"Sam..." Michael snapped his fingers, and Sam handed him the binoculars. "This could be our man, and if not, he we lean on him and he gives us Joey. We need to wait until he's vulnerable and then strike. Call Jesse. We may need him soon."
"Yeah, it'll be a pleasure." Even without the binoculars, he could see the spectacle across the street. He tugged at his collar, sensing his temperature rising a few degrees. He half expected the apartment windows to steam up if things progressed any further over there. With some effort, he was able to tear his eyes away from the scene, and he disappeared into the shadows to make that phone call. A cold shower would have been nice right about now, but if what came out of the tap was any indication, the best he'd be able to do is tepid.
Sam dialed and waited for Jesse to pick up. To his disappointment, it went to voicemail. "Jesse, it's Sam. Call me as soon as you get this. We need your help."
Sam returned to the windows, glanced through them, and distracted himself with a detour to the kitchenette. "I can't believe you're still watching that. I mean...if that were Elsa and me..." He shook his head at the thought. "I sure wouldn't want some sick peeping tom watching."
"Then he should keep his blinds closed." Michael sighed and sat back in his chair, lifted his ankles up to rest on the sill, and let the binoculars rest in his lap. "You don't think you've ever been seen in... a compromising position?"
"By anyone besides a female partner? I doubt it." He cracked open two beers and handed one to Michael. "What about you?" Michael hesitated, and Sam cocked a grin. "Oh come on! You're the one who brought it up. Now it's time to fess up!"
"There was a time where I knew I was being watched." He smiled as the memory bloomed in his head. "I was on a mission in Russia. It was...well...interesting. We were kind of a decoy, and as things heated up, it got to be less about what we were supposed to be and more about what we had between us. At first it was just for show, but then we forgot we were being watched." Then the smile faded to a frown and an intense furrow of his brow. He hid the emotions threatening to parade across his face by putting the binoculars up to his face again. "She was the best thing I'd had, until Fi came along."
"What was her name?"
"It's not important." Michael shook his head. "She played me for six months before that night."
"What happened to her?" Sam endured the nasty brew trickling down his throat as he avoided looking out the windows and instead focused on his friend.
Michael hesitated. He dropped his feet to the floor and rested his elbows on his knees. For a long time, he studied the floor, and when he looked up and met Sam's concerned eyes, he spoke barely above a whisper. "She died. Same mission, not four hours after we..." He shook away the memory and sighed heavily.
Empathy filled Sam's words. "I take it the plan didn't go so well."
"You could say that. It didn't help that she betrayed me, and then she wound up taking a bullet that was meant for me. She said she was sorry." He bowed his head for a moment, and when he raised it, a film of tears clouded his eyes. It took a lot to bring Michael Westen to that brink of emotion. "The last thing she said was, I'm sorry."
Sam was speechless. Sorry didn't seem to be a good enough response, so instead, he clamped a hand on his friend's shoulder and squeezed it. His phone rang. He set his beer on the floor, pulled the phone from his pocket, and answered, "Yeah...hey Jesse. We're at the stakeout, and it looks like things are starting to heat up here..." He glanced out the window, but he could only see brief flashes of flesh lit by the streetlights. One thing he did know, they were in the bedroom. "Yeah, we'll be waiting for you."
"That was Jesse," Michael stated.
"Yeah. He's on his way. He said he'd be here in about a minute or two"
"Good. I'll be glad to get this over with. It really is hot in here." He pulled at his collar and took another swig of beer.
"That's a Miami style stakeout for ya, Mike."
Both men froze at the sound of rhythmic tapping on the door. "Must be Jesse." Michael pushed himself out of his chair and went to answer the door.
"Did I miss anything good?"
Sam snagged the binoculars, looked through them, and let out a relieved breath. "Nope. But in a few minutes, the fun's gonna begin."
"Let's go." Michael checked his gun to make sure it was fully loaded, but as he slipped it into its holster, they heard a muffled explosion.
All eyes turned to the window and peered across the street. They gaped at the scene unfolding before them.
"Holy crap," Sam muttered, his eyes glued to what he saw in the binoculars. "She just shot him! She just shot our target!"
They watched as the woman slid off the bed. Her silhouetted body hurried out of the bedroom, and they waited for her to appear in the other room. When she did, she was zipping up the back of her dress and sliding into her shoes. She picked up her hat and purse, slung the purse over her shoulder and pressed the hat down onto her mussed hair. Then she let herself out of the apartment.
"Let's go. Now."
Michael led the way down to the street, and when they stepped out onto the sidewalk, a flash of gunfire across the street caused them to instinctively look for cover. But they quickly realized that it was the woman. She hit Tony's body guard with one quick, deadly shot. He dropped to the pavement, and she tossed her bag into the passenger seat of the sports car before getting in.
"We've gotta stop her!" Jesse yelled, but Michael was already moving. He ran across the street unprotected and raised his weapon.
"Don't even think about it! Turn off the car and get out!"
The woman's head was bowed, but she raised it slowly. The brim of her hat leveled with the ground, then tipped up. "Hello, Michael."
"Ilsa." Michael's jaw dropped. "What the..."
"You're going to get out of my way now and let me go." She spoke coolly with a distinct Russian accent. The gun in her hand proved she meant business.
"Mike, what's going on?" Sam stood in the middle of the street, covering his friend. Jesse backed him up. They were both aiming at the woman, ready to fire if necessary.
"It's her, Sam."
"Her who," Jesse asked.
"The woman I told Sam about."
Sam squinted and looked at her with dawning understanding. "What? You mean she's not dead?"
Ilsa smiled. "Yes, the rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated." She cocked her gun. "Now, enough catching up. Let me go."
"No. I can't do that. Not this time."
It all happened in an instant. Michael stood directly in front of the car, so she had no choice but to fire or run him down. As soon as her finger squeezed the trigger, Sam and Jesse took the opportunity to shoot. But they weren't fast enough. Her gun went off, echoed by another shot. She moved, and their shots missed. When the smoke cleared, Ilsa sat slumped sideways in the car, her eyes glazed in that tell-tale sign that she didn't have long. The gun lay on the floor, wrested out of her grip. Michael had the passenger door open, and he knelt on the seat with her head cradled in his lap.
"I-I'm sorry, Michael. I really did...love you." Her voice came out in a whisper.
"No. You're not going to leave it like that. You fooled me once, but not twice."
"It's true..."
While they conversed, Michael wasn't paying attention to anything but her eyes. He pressed the wound in her neck, but it was a useless gesture. Her hand came up, holding a small pistol. She tried aiming at Michael, but her arm waved about and found a much easier target.
"Jesse, look out!" Sam warned him as her gun went off but the shot was wild.
The air wheezed out of Ilsa's lungs, and the life faded from her eyes. Michael looked up at him with sorrow and regret in his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Mike. We don't know where that shot came from."
"It doesn't matter. At least now I know she's never coming back."
"We better get out of here before the cops show up." Jesse, the voice of reason, broke the stare between friends. Sirens bounced off the buildings, getting closer by the second.
"Yeah. Let's go." Michael spoke, but his mind was in a haze. Sam drove, because he wasn't sure Mike could navigate his way out of a paper bag, let alone back to the loft.
Sam inhaled the aroma of fresh coffee, grinned, and ran his hand through freshly washed hair as he treaded across Michael's loft. Fiona sat on a stool facing away from him as he approached, and when he neared, she turned and smiled at him.
"Feeling better?"
"Cleaner, yes." He finished buttoning his shirt and sat on the stool beside her. "I'd feel better if Mike would wake up."
"Don't get your hopes up, because I gave him a sedative last night. He was tossing and turning long after you were out, and he needed his rest."
"Good idea, Fi. He had a rough night."
As they conversed, she rifled through Ilsa's bag. "Oh, hello. What is this?" She pulled out a manila folder and checked it for any identifying marks.
"Looks like a dossier."
Fiona nodded, opened the file, and fanned the documents inside onto the surface. As she scanned them, she gasped.
Sam whistled. "Oh boy, wait'll Mike sees this."
"This is..."
"Yeah. Tony Romo was a little fish working for a big fish. And these papers are gonna help us find the big fish."
"Shhhh, not so loud! Let him sleep."
"Yeah, he's been through a lot lately. He deserves his rest." Sam scooped up the papers and put them back into the folder. "I'll take these with me, look at what we've got, and come up with a plan. If you're up for a little fishing trip, Fi, Mike can sit this one out."
She glanced down at her ankle, which was encased in a cast, then looked up at him. It would make wearing her usual shoes difficult, but she could still get around. Her smile widened into a full grin. "You're on. As long as it doesn't involve a stakeout in some sleazy hotel somewhere."
"No, I think I've had enough of that for awhile, Fi." He downed his coffee in one gulp, slipped off the stool and headed for the door. "Catch ya later."
The hot Miami sun beat down on Sam as he unlocked his car. He glanced to the west and saw storm clouds approaching, but he smiled, knowing he would be spending the morning in the comfort of his air conditioned apartment instead of shedding buckets of sweat and energy in a bad stakeout. As much as Sam hated them, and the last one in particular, they netted some valuable information that brought them one step closer to finding out who killed Max, and maybe filling in some of the missing pieces as to who burned Michael. Being his friend wasn't easy, but if Sam were in Michael's shoes, he hoped that his friends would be loyal enough to endure three days and nights in less than perfect conditions to help him find the truth.