Rick and A.J. didn't have to drive too far this time. Once they were on their way, they had a hunch where they were heading. Sure enough, the Caddy soon made a turn and got onto Park. It slowed down as it entered the 200 Block, and the turn signal came on.
Rick drove past Trans-Global Trading and parked the Volvo about a block ahead.
"So, here we are," announced Rick trying to sound as casually as possible. His brother's meltdown last night was still fresh in his memory.
A.J. took a nervous backward glance at the commercial building in which Trans-Global was located. Rick was already in the back of the car putting on dark clothes.
"I don't know about this, Rick," A.J. said hesitantly. "Maybe I should go in by myself this time…"
"Now, wait just a minute. Didn't you tell me not too long ago that you'd never let me out of your sight till this case was over?" Rick reminded his brother in a neutral, non-confrontational tone.
"Well, yeah…" A.J. admitted reluctantly.
"And this is not like going into a posh bar—you need someone to cover your back."
"Yeah, I know."
"Besides you don't know the best way to sneak into the building." Rick cracked a smile.
"But you do?" A.J. bristled, "What else have you been holding back from me about your little outing last night?"
"I didn't lie to you, A.J. I stayed away from this place, but you didn't say anything against someone else casing the joint." Rick grinned as he tossed a dark outfit to his brother.
S&S S&S
Trans-Global occupied one of the business spaces in a large building, which offered office areas on the front end, warehouse or loading facilities at the back. One of the offices adjacent to Trans-Global was unoccupied and had minimal security measures. Once they were in the vacant office, Rick and A.J. removed one of the ceiling panels and got into the space between the ceiling and the roof. There were pipes and ducts snaking throughout the length of the building in the dusty attic space, but the brothers could move from one end to the other with relative ease.
They didn't have to go too far to position themselves right above the office of Trans-Global. Rick lifted a ceiling panel only a few inches and got a compact out of his pant pocket.
"Is that Trixie's, or yours?" A.J. giggled softly holding a penlight for his brother.
"Shut up, A.J." Rick gave his brother an annoyed look and lowered the open compact through the crack. He studied the reflection on the compact mirror briefly.
"It's an open office space with partitions, a private office and a door at the back. The door probably leads to the warehouse. And I think there's a john in a corner."
"See anyone?"
Rick shook his head. "No. They must be in the private office, or the warehouse."
"Where's the private office?"
"Over there."
A.J. checked the spot Rick was pointing and lifted a ceiling panel. "No one here either."
Rick whistled and gestured toward one end of the attic space that faced the warehouse. It was hard to see in the dark, but there was a small window covered with dust.
"Must be the access window for the maintenance workers," said Rick.
It took him a few minutes, and elbow grease, to open such a small window. It obviously hadn't been used for quite some time. When it finally went up protesting with a creak, the opening it left was remarkably small.
"What is this? A pet door?" Rick complained.
"This building must be pretty old. The size of the window stayed the same—it's just that the Americans got bigger," rationalized A.J.
Rick used the compact again to make sure the coast was clear and started wiggling out of the attic space and cussing under his breath.
The warehouse was much more spacious than the office area. Rick was standing on a catwalk with a handrail, and the ceiling was about fifteen, twenty feet above. There was a metal ladder attached to the wall. It led to a maze of catwalks for the maintenance purposes just below the ceiling. The ledge he was standing on wrapped around the perimeter of the warehouse and had a couple of sets of stairs for easy access from the floor.
Rick looked around and whispered into the window, "Okay, A.J."
There was no answer. "A.J.?"
A moment or two passed, and his brother finally whispered back, "Be careful, Rick."
"What? What are you doing? Get your…" Rick broke off. Someone was coming up the stairs. "No! Don't come out—stay there!"
He'd have to get off the catwalk and find a place to hide because he was in an exposed, vulnerable area of the warehouse. Reluctantly, he left his brother behind, went around the bend and hopped onto the top of one of the industrial-size shelves that stood on both sides of the warehouse.
Rick was almost out the window when A.J. heard a flush of a toilet. He moved toward the sound of the water and quietly raised a ceiling panel just a crack. A man with slicked-back hair came out of the restroom and was met by the Redhead, who was still carrying the attaché case he'd received from DeGroot. They exchanged a few words then walked into the warehouse through the door at the back of the office, and that was when his brother called his name. "A.J.?"
He wanted to warn his brother about the two men but assumed he'd hear them coming, and he was right— Rick told him not to come out. His pulse picked up when he heard his brother going to the left and someone else coming up from the right. He retreated to the deep recesses of darkness and lay flat on this stomach. The footsteps stopped right by the window. After several agonizingly long seconds, the unknown individual walked away to the left, stopped and retraced his way back.
A.J. was becoming anxious. Rick was out there all by himself with no one to protect him. A.J. had to catch up with him but didn't know if it was safe to go into the warehouse by the same route he'd taken. And because someone had noticed that the access window was open, it wasn't safe to stay in the attic space either. Without much hesitation, he started his descent to the private office.
He landed on a large executive desk and quickly got down on the floor. Maybe there were other ways to get inside the warehouse, he hoped. As he walked over to the door and tried to turn the doorknob, there was the sound of the backdoor opening, which was followed by several voices and footsteps.
He immediately locked the door, scrambled up on the desk and jumped to get a purchase of the ceiling panels. Someone was at the door trying to open it. He frantically pulled himself up and was halfway back in the attic space. When he thought he'd make it, he heard the office door burst open. A huge hand grabbed his ankle and yanked it so hard he went crashing down and landed on the desk sending trays and documents every which way. The same hand that had brought him down clamped around his neck, and he was pinned down on the desk.
"You!" An angry voice exclaimed.
A.J.'s eyes locked with those of the Muscle. In the corner of his eye, he saw a few more people streaming into the office.
"Who is that?" Someone in the crowd asked.
"One of the Simons," replied the Muscle.
"Is he the one we want?"
"No. The other one." This voice undoubtedly belonged to the Bass, the Muscle's partner.
The Bass pushed the Muscle aside and lifted A.J. off the desk. He confiscated A.J.'s .357 from his holster.
The Redhead and the Slick were standing by the goons.
"What are you doing here?" asked the Redhead.
A.J. shrugged. "I saw a couple of familiar faces," he gestured toward the Bass and the Muscle, "and followed them here. I just wanted to know who I'm dealing with."
"You're way out of your league, Simon," said the Slick coldly. "Where's your brother?"
"In Mexico. That's all I know."
A short, skinny man walked into the office. "There's no one else here."
The mobsters had not been done with the sweep: the Bass and the Muscle went outside to look for Rick or any other security breach; The Shorty climbed into the attic space; and the Redhead and the Slick led A.J. to the warehouse.
"Where's your brother hiding? Is he here?" asked the Redhead
"He's somewhere in Mexico, I told you. I came here alone." A.J. stubbornly stuck to his story.
The Redhead's eyes hardened, and he shoved A.J. against the wall. "You're a terrible liar, Simon. We know he's back in town."
A.J. clammed up and stared back at the Redhead defiantly.
"All right, have it your way," the Redhead gave A.J. a thin, cruel smile. "There are so many different ways to make you talk, and I can assure you, none of them is pleasant."
His malevolent grin became wider. "For instance, I can blow out your kneecaps one at a time and work my way up. And don't worry—you're not going to pass out or bleed to death. We have a medical doctor on our team."
All the talk of blood and gore made A.J.'s stomach churn, especially when it concerned his own blood and gore. Unlike Rick, he had never been good at bluffing and hoped he didn't show how terrified he was.
"HEY, OVER HERE!"
Rick's booming voice bounced around in the cavernous warehouse making everyone's head turn. He was standing at the other end of the floor. Half of his body was obscured by rows and rows of shelves, but they could clearly see he was holding a lighter in one hand. A tiny flame from the lighter flickered just below a small rectangular object that seemed to be a cigarette pack.
The Redhead kept his gun trained on A.J. as the Slick aimed at Rick.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" A.J. screamed trying to lunge at the Slick, but the Redhead slammed him back on the wall.
"Let my brother go, or you'll never get what you want," shouted Rick.
"Why should we? I can get a clean shot from here." The Slick yelled back.
"Maybe so. But I bet you can't get here fast enough before this pack goes up in flames."
It was a game of chicken of sorts, and neither side flinched. A few tense, deathly quiet moments crawled by. Then A.J. heard soft footsteps above and saw a man on the top of the stairs aiming a rifle at his brother.
"Rick! Look out!"
Rick jumped sideway and ducked behind the shelves as several shots rang out.
Everything happened so fast it was a blur. When the echoes of the shots died down, A.J. was face down on the floor with someone's knee digging in the back. A pair of black shoes came into the field of his vision.
"It's all right. Let him go." A.J. heard someone speak.
Two men, faces unseen, took hold of A.J.'s upper arms from each side and pulled him up from the floor. As he got back on his feet, he came face-to-face with a man wearing an FBI windbreaker. The warehouse was teeming with the SWAT snipers in full riot gear. The man who'd had a rifle and the Slick lay unmoving and appeared dead, and the Redhead was prone on the floor handcuffed.
"Are you all right, Mr. Simon?" The man in an FBI jacket asked, but A.J. hardly heard him.
"Rick…" A.J. frantically tried to find his brother, but he was nowhere in sight.
"Ri-i-i-ck!" A.J. broke into a run. He ran past three, four snipers sweeping the warehouse row by row.
He found Rick's crumpled figure between the last two rows of shelves. He was lying on his side, eyes closed. A.J. froze at the sight of his worst nightmare.
"Rick…" He called his brother's name hoarsely and knelt beside him.
He turned Rick on his back to check on the injury but found none. Suddenly, Rick's eyes popped open.
"I can't believe this," said Rick staring into his brother's eyes.
A.J. was too stunned to speak.
"After all these years, you still fall for it." Rick grinned a 'fooled-ya!' grin.
"You…!" A.J. managed to say, but the rest of the speech got stuck in his throat.
"Is that your way to thank the man who just saved your hide?"
A.J. was getting infuriated. He grasped the lapels of Rick's jacket and pulled him up in a sitting position, fully intending to punch him in the face, but when Rick grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him to his chest, the familiar scent of his brother—cigarette, cheap cologne, sweat—enveloped him, and a tremendous relief washed over him. Somehow the brothers ended up embracing each other.
"Are you two all right?"
Rick and A.J. looked up at the FBI agent in a windbreaker, who seemed to be the commanding officer of this operation.
"What took you so long?" Rick muttered under his breath.
As the two brothers got on their feet, the FBI agent offered his hand. "I'm Agent Michael Nickerson, FBI."
"I assume you know who we are," said A.J.
Nickerson nodded.
"And you want the code we found in the Ford pickup, I presume." A.J. pointed at the cigarette pack on the floor.
This time, Nickerson shook his head. "No, we've already got what we wanted."
"We don't have the message on us anyway if you want it," interjected Rick.
"What?" A.J. seemed puzzled.
"You're slipping, A.J." Rick clucked his tongue as he bent over to pick up the pack.
Even more puzzled, A.J. stared at Rick.
"Did you seriously believe I came here bearing gifts? This smoke is mine. Stop being so gullible."
Rick wadded the pack into a tiny ball and threw it at his very confused brother.
He started to snicker but stopped abruptly when he heard someone's footsteps approaching.
"Nickerson, is this place secured?"
A.J. didn't have to see who it was because the deep, resonating voice was unmistakable.
"Aaagh!" An involuntary scream escaped from his lips when the Bass appeared before them. Instinctively, his hand went to his side for his gun though the holster was empty.
"Relax, Mr. Simon. He's on our side," said Nickerson gripping A.J.'s arm firmly.
"How can he be on our side? He's one of the guys who ransacked my home!"
"Mr. Simon, he is a DEA undercover agent on a joint task force working with our bureau."
A.J. was momentarily rendered speechless, and Rick was nakedly gawking at the hulking figure of the DEA agent.
"Gentlemen, this is Agent Brett Daniels."
"It's regrettable that we couldn't meet under more pleasant circumstance, Mr. Simon" Daniels rumbled to A.J. "But I was there to protect you and your brother in case such action was required. We don't want any civilian casualty."
"To p…" sputtered A.J. "That's a funny way to put it, isn't it? You knocked me out cold!"
"You had only two choices—me or Riser, the man I was with."
"Riser? As in…?" asked Rick.
"Meat Tenderizer."
Rick raised his eyebrows as his lips formed an 'o.' He put his arm around his brother's shoulders and spoke in a tone one might use for admonishing a bratty child. "You know, you should be more grateful, A.J."
A.J. shot a venomous glare at Rick.
"Agent Daniels knew exactly what he was doing," Nickerson assured him. "He has a black belt in karate, in addition to a PhD in Behavioral Psychology and a law degree."
So, this Daniels character was an overachieving, legal-eagle, karate-chopping psychologist, but knowing that didn't make A.J. feel any better—a punch was a punch, no matter who threw it.
"Don't you think you owe us an explanation at least?" A.J. sounded exasperated.
"We're more than happy to tell you as much as we're allowed to divulge without jeopardizing the ongoing investigations."
Which means diddly-squat in layman's term, thought Rick. He saw in his mind's eye hundreds of pages of some document, which was heavily censored with words, sentences and paragraphs blackened out. But A.J. was more trusting than he, and naturally his response was, "I'll take it."