A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts. Sorry for the delay, but RL has been hectic, and as those of you who may have read the original version of this story might note, we're deviating from the original version now. So, it's new territory here now, which takes a bit longer to navigate (write). ;)
Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 23 – The Hialeah Heat is on.
Edward
The city of Hialeah, Florida is a densely-populated though quaint town that on first look, appears to have been lifted off a Caribbean island and set in the middle of urban Miami, U.S.A. From the stifling humidity to the pastel, Spanish-Colonial-style buildings to the swaying palm trees to the street and traffic signs which are only in Spanish, it's not difficult to convince one's self that you're in the tropics. Some quick research I performed on the flight over revealed that three-quarters of Hialeah's population is of Cuban heritage; even more impressive, roughly ninety-five percent of the population is of Hispanic descent. It's a tight-knit community that has fought tooth and nail to preserve its roots. As such, it's intrinsically aware when there are outsiders in its midst.
Such as now.
When the black SUV Emmett and I picked up at the airport stops at a red light, the loud, Latin music blaring from the street corner reverberates through the closed windows, making the entire vehicle hum and vibrate. A group of young men congregates outside of the corner bodega, the storefront window behind them advertising 'Cubanos, cafe, y mas.'
Their eyes are instantly drawn to the vehicle, marking the license as they squint and peer hard before smirking and shooting one another knowing, sideways glances, and accompanying commentary. Watching the movement of their mouths allows me to catch a couple of keywords and phrases.
"Quién carajo son…?"
"…la policia otravez…?"
Emmett exhales. "See, this is why I prefer GOVs. At least they've got dark tint on the windows."
"A government-owned vehicle would've meant a joint operation with Miami FBI, which would've meant explanations, which would've slowed us down. And with less than twenty-four hours before the rep from the U.S. Marshal's office shows up to take Isabella's statement, we can't afford the delay."
"We can't afford for the Miami Feds to bear witness to the crazy, off-the-books shit we're about to attempt either."
To that, I make no reply because he's not wrong. Momentarily cutting my gaze away from the guy who's now talking animatedly on his cell phone, dark eyes glued to our car, I raise a brow at Emmett.
"Besides, the dark tint itself would've been a dead give-away."
"I hope you intended that as a pun," he snickers.
"Let's hope it remains a pun. Em, just a few hours ago, Miami Feds searched Jacob Black's home and questioned Billy Black. Now, two out-of-towners show up out of the blue. They know exactly who the fuck we are, tinted windows or not."
"True." Emmett shrugs. "Guess our arrival won't be much of a surprise."
"I never intended it to be."
Because there's no time to spare for more surprises. Only Emmett, Jasper, Alice, and I know that Isabella is refusing to disclose and implicate her partner-in-crime, Jacob Black, in any statement she provides the government. If Isabella's statement doesn't include full disclosure, not only will there be no indictment against James for the first-degree murder of Charles and Renee Swan, but the government will rescind its offer of full immunity for Bella.
I won't allow that.
What's more, if I'm to keep up with the Anthony Masen charade, I'm expected in court just a few hours after Bella for my arraignment. At the moment, James and Kate believe I'm being held and questioned in an FBI holding room, just like them.
When the light morphs from red to green, I draw in a deep breath and prep my right foot for the Gas. No; there's no time to spare.
"Ready?"
"No time like the present to get this show on the road."
The SUV's tires screech, and when the car jumps the curb, the crowd of men at the corner jerk back, yelling out startled obscenities. As I swiftly switch the gear to 'Park,' Emmett grabs my forearm and offers me a few final words of caution.
"Ed, there's a million ways this could go wrong. If any of these guys do know Jacob or Billy Black, this is gonna blow your cover; or one of them can contact Miami FBI; or word can reach James somehow that Doctor Masen showed up in Florida as an FBI agent; or-"
"Em, they're all chances I'm willing to take, but that doesn't mean you should take them with me. Why don't you stay in the car-"
He chuckles. "Fuck no. I just wanted to make sure you're fully aware that we're walking into the lion's den."
"I'm aware."
Simultaneously, both he and I push open our doors and jump out, approaching the half dozen men who still remain at the corner, each of them eyeing us with open wariness and hostility, still lobbing Spanish oaths our way.
"Mama-bichos…pendejos...hijo 'e-"
"Good Morning to you too." In case they've missed it, I hold out the badge hanging from my neck. "I'm Special Agent Edward Cullen of the FBI, and this is my partner, Agent Emmett McCarty. We'd like to ask you guys a few questions."
When no one volunteers, I approach the one in the front, the one who made the phone call. Though they're all tall, muscular men, he appears the most imposing. The rest gather behind him, arms crossed stiffly against their chests, legs splayed apart in a posture of defiance.
"Are you in charge here?"
He makes no reply beyond a dark scowl, so I rush right in because as I said, I've no time to waste.
"Do you know Jacob Black, of North Miami Beach?"
His jaw clenches, lips forming a tight line.
"Do you know Jacob's father, Billy Black, from right here in Hialeah?"
"We already answered your questions when the rest of your buddies showed up last night," – his words are spat through a barely moving mouth – "and we have nothing else to say to your kind."
"Who were you calling right now?"
"Go to hell. I don't need to tell you that."
"Do you know where Jacob Black is at this moment?"
"Paul, dile a ese hijo 'e puta que se vaya p'al carajo," one of the men standing near the back says.
Cell phone guy – Paul – snorts. "He says to tell you to go-"
"I know what he said. Look, Paul, we're not looking to get anyone in trouble here; we just need to find Jacob Black, that's all."
Paul's dark eyes glow like black ice – dangerous to tread on. His upper lip curls.
"Oh, is that all? Well, good luck with that, if that's all you need," he scoffs.
Conveying the end of our conversation, he offers me his back, and the crowd behind him parts like the Red Sea. As he saunters away, one by one, the rest of his pack follows.
"We have Bella."
I call it out in a steely voice, playing the part of the detached, clinical FBI agent which they already believe me to be. Instantly, they all stop in their tracks, parting once more as if part of a pack mentality. They make way for Paul to retrace his steps – which thankfully, he does, though with a fiery, threatening glare set aflame by pure hatred. Again, one by one, the rest of the group of men turn, their dark eyes equally feral.
Emmett murmurs out of one side of his mouth. "Shit. Now, you did it."
"I'll assume by your reaction that the rest of my buddies who dropped by last night didn't mention that fact."
"You're lying," Paul seethes.
"Isabella Maria Swan, age twenty-three, five foot four, brown hair and brown eyes- well originally brown hair and brown eyes before she employed the blond and blue-eyed disguise. Well-versed in krav maga, and I'll further assume she's got one or more of you to thank for that, but not well-versed enough."
Offering them a purposely mocking grin, I wait and see if in their bewildered fury, it'll earn me the information I crave – or a fist to the face. The heavy silence that descends and surrounds the street corner offers no indication of either possibility's triumph, and it's only broken by the Caribbean beats erupting from an open window, by the sound of traffic, by the rumble deep in the throats of the men before us.
"Bella died six years ago in a car accident, along with her parents."
Paul's reply slithers like the hiss of a snake, and in turn, I offer my reply with as much even nonchalance as I can muster because I have to maintain a vestige of the upper hand here.
"No, she didn't. She's alive, and you all know that. She escaped the car accident, which was no accident. Then, with the help of her mother's godfather, Billy Black, she lived here, hiding among all of you for a few years. But again, you all didn't hide her well enough."
Paul rushes me, at the last moment yanked back hard and boomeranging against a couple of his buddies. He struggles against their vice-like grip, his arms folded forcefully behind his back. Passersby observe the scene with open curiosity and keep walking. All the while, Emmett and I both remain still, ostensibly impassive, though I know he's on as high alert as I am.
"You bastard! You have no idea what you're doing!" Paul howls.
"I think I do have an idea," I shrug, "but what I don't have is time, Paul. If you won't tell us where Jacob is, then at least deliver this message to him, since I see you happen to have a phone handy."
I peer down at my watch, and now, ice rushes through my veins and up my spine. While we've been standing on this street corner, Father Time has been a bastard. The shock infuses me with a blinding frustration I'm no longer quite capable of camouflaging so that when I look back up, my nostrils flare, and the rest of my words erupt like glacial daggers.
"You let Jacob know that my partner and I will only be in Hialeah for a few hours. After that, we need to head back to New York City, and once we're gone, any opportunity to help Bella out of the mess she's in will be gone with us. Let him know that if he doesn't show his face and come find me…" my voice quivers at the possibility, "if he doesn't come find me, Bella is going to spend the next couple of decades in federal prison. And if that happens, I will make it my personal," – I tap a finger hard against my chest – "life-long mission to find him and his family and make sure they all rot in some hellhole for at least as long."
Every word I utter causes Paul's chest to heave harder, the dark hands fisted at his sides turn white with protruding knuckles. When a couple of the men flanking him stalk toward us, allowing the morning sun to glint off of the guns tucked into their waistbands, Emmett and I slowly and cautiously hold out a hand, palm up while reaching behind us.
"No."
At Paul's command, the men stop. The air is thick with acrimony, its weight visceral, like a fuse ready to blow at the slightest wrong move. It doesn't take much instinct to know we've pushed far enough, and now, all we can do is…wait.
"That's all I have to say. Now, we're going to go stop by Billy Black's residence-"
"Don't waste your time; he's not home," Paul snarls viciously.
"Not after that warning you just gave him, huh?" I scowl. "Fine. Deliver our message, and if anyone wants to find us, we'll be at the race track."
Emmett and I swagger to our car with more than a little feigned confidence. All the while, I know he's praying just as hard as I am that the bullets don't start flying.
OOOOO
A couple of hours later, Emmett and I find ourselves high up on the bleachers of the empty Hialeah Park Racetrack. The racetrack itself seems like a remnant, something out of a turn of the century movie, faded yet full of those characteristics attributed to a bygone era. My mind conjures men in top hats and women in long gowns, dressed in their best for a day at the races. It's no longer what I've read it once was – a place for Miami's elite to see and be seen. What's more, this time of year, the racetrack is closed to racing. Instead, patrons of the racetrack now place their bets in the casino on park grounds.
There's a flock of pink flamingos splashing in the small, manmade lake cocooned by the racetrack. With my legs spread wide, hands knit together, and arms restlessly on my thighs, I closely scrutinize their flight. There's something calming, mesmerizing in the way they soar freely and unencumbered, undisturbed by galloping horses or by noisy crowds now inside the racetrack's casino rather than cheering from high up on the bleachers. They're in their element, untethered…fearless.
'You're not afraid.'
'No, not when I'm in the air…'
Emmett cuts into the strange reverie in which I find myself.
"So, let me see if I've got this straight. You'd rather just sit here, staring at a bunch of flamingos splashing around for a few hours, instead of trying our luck in the casino."
When I quirk a brow at him, he grins.
"I'm just saying, we may be here for a while, and considering we just bet our lives at that corner and somehow managed to get away intact, I'd say Lady Luck is definitely shining down on us today."
"Yeah, let's hope you're right, but you do recall we're officially on duty?"
This time, he quirks a meaningful brow because we've broken about every other rule in the book.
"Yeah, I know, I know," I concede.
Nonetheless, we remain on the bleachers. A few hours later, the afternoon sun's rays beam their full, Florida strength, and the majestic flamingos shrewdly remain near their lake. They keep cool in their bath while high on the bleachers, Emmett and I simmer and stew. Sweat drips down my temples and dampens my neck. For about the fiftieth time, I rake a hand through my hair and wipe off the excess perspiration on my pants. In my periphery, I see Emmett examine his watch.
"It's getting late."
"I know."
"We're going to have to start thinking about catching a flight back soon."
"I know."
"Ed, if we're back in New York early, it might give us a chance to speak with Isabella again. Maybe this time, you can convince her-"
"She won't listen to me."
"Then, maybe Alice can get her to change her mind."
I make no reply. Emmett is silent for a few minutes, then he sighs. "I'm going to go find either a bathroom or a quiet corner to piss."
"All right."
"Ed, we gave it a good try."
"I know."
As Emmett climbs down the bleachers, following the Restroom signs, my gaze follows the flamingos.
"No, you're not meant to be bound," I murmur, shaking my head. "You're meant to soar. You're meant to fly, and I'll do whatever it-"
An iron-like grip squeezes my windpipe, and I barely register that it's an arm wrapped around my neck before I'm jerked off of the bleacher and I land hard on my back, two arms around my throat now.
"Motherfucker, where is she?"
Instinctively, I reach up and latch around the arms, attempting to unfurl them while panic invades every corner of my mind because I can't breathe. But he pulls me up off the ground, and my feet dangle in the air.
"I said where the fuck is she? Tell me or I'll kill you! I swear I'll kill you!"
A vague, hazy part of my mind fills with indignation because, despite the constant questioning, he's not actually offering me an opportunity to reply – even if I meant to reply.
"Where is she?" he hisses roughly in my ear, while I struggle for a meager taste of humid air. "Where's Bella?"
Finally, fight or flight kicks in, and I recall that I need to fight the instinct against air deprivation. Releasing his arms, I jab an elbow deep into his stomach.
"Oof!" Releasing me, he staggers backward, and I round on him, already swinging as I look into the frenzied, black glare of Jacob Black. A left jab catches his jaw, and he staggers another step. But then, with a bear's growl, he comes for me, and I dodge a massive fist, swinging for his stomach. It connects, and he howls, staggering another step backward.
"Where's Bella?" he yells unrelentingly. "What have you done with her?"
"Listen to me, Black!"
He rams headfirst into my gut, knocking out every last breath I've managed to inhale in the past five seconds. We fall back together, tumbling over the bleachers, and throwing wild punches. He catches my left ribs, and I catch his right temple. When I manage a grip on both of his forearms, I pin them down and rush out,
"Listen to me, Jacob! She's-"
His eyes bulge, and a deep rage darkens them to coal.
"You're not FBI! You're Masen!"
Like Samson, his arms break free of restraint, and he punches me in the stomach, knocking me backward and off of him. On top now, he wraps his huge hands around my neck once more.
"Where is she asshole?" he howls. "WHERE IS SHE?"
I pummel my fists repeatedly into his sides, but his hold around my throat barely loosens. Motherfucker is as strong as an ox, and for a couple of seconds, I begin to think I may be a goner here. But Bella's face swims before me, and I know that whether she wants it or not, I've got to get out of this if I'm going to get her out of the mess I've helped put her in.
Punching Black's jaw startles him just long enough so that his hands loosen for a micro-second. In that fraction of a second, I knock his arms off and shove him enough so that when I kick him in the stomach, he lands on his back. Just as he makes to stand, a trigger cocks behind me.
"Jacob Black, hands up now," Emmett growls.
Jacob looks at Emmett frantically. In his fiery gaze, I see him measuring his chances of lunging and surviving. Luckily, Emmett sees it too.
"The odds aren't in your favor, buddy," Emmett says. "Trust me on that one."
"That's right, kid," I sneer mockingly. "Come here and give it another go, so I can knock you-"
Behind Emmett, a couple more triggers abruptly cock.
"Chico, you ain't knockin' nuttin' right now, and I'd say it's you and your panita's odds that ain't looking too hot at the moment."
A/N: Thoughts?
Translations:
"Quién carajo son…?" - Who the hell are...?
"…la policia otravez…?" - The cops again...?
"Mama-bichos…pendejos...hijo 'e-" - Cocksuckers...dumbasses...sons of-
"Paul, dile a ese hijo 'e puta que se vaya p'al carajo." - Paul, tell that son of a bitch to go to hell.
"Chico" - Kid
"Panita" - Buddy
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"See" you soon.