WC Fic: Shirts & Skins - Part 2.1
Two -- Hooch
Pacific Coast, Mexico, February 2003
“This is beautiful.” Elizabeth stared out the passenger side window, her face beaming. Can you see the ocean, honey? I still can’t believe we won a trip to Mexico. Can you?”
Peter shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. He hated lying to his wife.
“El, I have to tell you something,” he started with a guilt-ridden glance at the beautiful brunette at his side.
“Uh-huh.”
“We didn’t exactly win this trip,” he admitted sheepishly.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fake FBI ID in your carry-on, Agent Keith Turner?” Peter was dumbstruck. Elizabeth looked at him with wide-eyed amusement.
“Peter, we’ve been married for four years. You can’t even lie to me about which of my dresses you like. Undercover training, my ass! How did you ever make it through the academy?” Peter shrugged with a lopsided smile.
“Nothing can prepare you for an adversary of my brilliant wife’s caliber.”
“So what’s the story, Peter? And I want the truth and nothing but.” Peter held up his right hand in surrender, keeping his left on the steering wheel.
“It’s about Caffrey,” Peter growled. “An associate of his, for lack of a better term, called me last week to ask for my help. He wouldn’t explain much over the phone. He offered to pay for our trip if I agreed to meet with him. Beachside bungalow, spa treatments, open bar and all.”
“And you trust him?”
Peter shrugged.
“You don’t trust him, but you can’t pass up a chance to nab Caffrey?”
“I think I have nothing to lose. Plus, we haven’t had a real vacation since our honeymoon.”
Elizabeth sighed in exasperation.
“This beachside bungalow better be nice.” Elizabeth slumped back in her seat and sullenly stared at the breathtaking scenery.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Peter chuckled. “If Neal Caffrey is footing the bill we’ll be spending the next five days in the lap of luxury.”
--
Peter took a swig from his beer bottle. He stifled the ensuing belch with a fist pressed to his lips. At ten minutes to midnight the beachside cabana bar was all but deserted. Snippets of salsa music occasionally drifted downwind from the busy dance bar up the promenade. The top button of Peter’s crisp white shirt was undone, the tie loosened around his neck. A suit and tie was admittedly an odd choice for getting a late night drink in an oceanfront resort, but it helped to remind Peter that his presence here wasn’t for entertainment purposes.
A man slipped onto the barstool to Peter’s left and ordered a shot of tequila. The good stuff. Naturally. Peter mustered him from the corner of his eye. The short bespectacled man wore a nausea-inducing Hawaiian shirt and an ill-fitting sombrero that he likely picked up at one of the souvenir kiosks that littered the beautiful resort town. Not exactly the mental image Peter had concocted of Neal Caffrey’s right hand man. Then again, with Caffrey you never knew.
“Don’t you think you’re slightly overdressed for the late hour?” The Hawaiian shirt asked.
“I’m here on business.”
“Really? What kind of business?”
“You tell me.” Peter glared at the man, indicating that he wasn’t up for small talk.
The Hawaiian shirt heaved a sigh and produced a thin manila folder, pushing it towards Peter on the bar counter. Splaying his left hand over the folder, Peter slid it in front of him but hesitated to open it.
“Just to be clear, the fact that I flew down to Mexico and showed up here tonight should not be misconstrued as a promise to help you.”
“Crystal clear. All I’m asking is for you to take a look.”
Peter opened the file. The 5-by-7 inch mug shot was clipped prominently to the top of the stack of papers inside. Peter knew when he was being manipulated and he silently cursed the conniving little weasel next to him. With his hair trimmed short in back and longer wavy strands flopping into his forehead Neal Caffrey looked like a college kid. A college kid after a frat party gone wrong, wearing the beginnings of a black eye and a split lower lip like a badge of honor. The sizable bloodstain on the collar of the blue and white striped Rugby shirt - Lacoste, Peter noted - was unsettling.
“The arresting officer clipped him pretty good behind the ear,” the man in the sombrero explained, watching Peter’s face intently. “Needed twelve stitches before they could book him.” He was pleased to detect the small twitch of empathy rushing over the agent’s face before the mask of professionalism was back in place.
Peter pushed the photograph to the side and moved on to the copy of the police report underneath.
“The English translation is on the next page.” Peter gave the hawaiian shirt a belittling sideways glance that made clear he had no problem reading the original Spanish document. He scanned the page briefly, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.
“Drug possession and assault of a police officer?”
“To be fair, the joint in the back pocket of Neal’s jeans may have been my fault,” the short man admitted.
“Two counts of assault? That doesn’t sound like Caffrey.”
“The cops were beating a dog in the middle of the local town square. A detail conveniently omitted from the police report.”
“Ah.” Peter straightened on the barstool, his eyes bearing down on the Hawaiian shirt in expectation of further explanation. “What happened?”
“Neal stepped in and politely asked them to stop. They didn’t. So Neal did the only logical thing to do. He pickpocketed their handcuffs and cuffed the two officers to each other. They were confused long enough for the dog to get away.”
“I assume Caffrey wasn’t so lucky?”
“One of the cops pulled his gun,” the short man sighed. “Neal’s never been able to wrap his brilliant mind around the concept of firearms. He didn’t have choice but to stick up his hands and wait for the officers to untangle themselves. They made sure he was cuffed behind his back before beating the living daylight out of him.”
“A dog, huh?”
“Yes.”
Peter glanced down at the police report and quickly did the math.
“That was three weeks ago. When is his court date? Any judge will throw this case out. There had to be plenty of witnesses.”
The Hawaiian shirt snorted.
“One of the arresting officers is the son of the local police superintendent. Neal will never see the inside of a courtroom. I tried throwing some money at the problem, but my efforts were shut down pretty quickly. I haven’t even seen him since the day of the arrest. I’ve barely been able to keep track of him in the system.”
“Where is he now?”
“They transferred him to a facility in the desert, about two hours east of here. It doesn’t help that Neal is here under the alias of Nick Halden. My guess is that they did a background check on Halden and found nada. They figured nobody would miss a guy like that when he disappears on a backpacking trip to Mexico.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” The short man flipped a second folder onto the counter and opened it. Peter leaved through the documents inside. He shot the man next to him an admonishing glare.
“These are extradition papers.“ He held a page up to the light. “The watermark almost looks authentic.”
“I know I could have done better.” The Hawaiian shirt sounded annoyed and defensive. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of time. Not to mention the fact that the guy who could have done the job perfectly is currently occupied trying to look good in a denim jumpsuit. What matters is, will it be good enough to fool the warden of some provincial Mexican prison?”
“And that’s where I come in? You need somebody with the right credentials as a frontman to--“.
“To extract the package. Exactly,” the short man cut in.
“Without meaning to sound selfish, but what on earth makes you think I will put my career on the line for this?”
“Because against all conceivable logic, Neal seems to think you’re a decent guy.“
Peter grunted dismissively.
“And what do you think?”
The Hawaiian shirt blinked at Peter a few times.
“I think despite being a Fed and all, even you believe that the punishment should fit the crime.” He pulled Neal’s mug shot out from under the loose papers on the bar counter and thumped his index finger on it. “And I know that you know that whatever crimes he allegedly committed in your book, they do not call for this.”
Peter exhaled audibly and took to rubbing his tired eyes long enough to make the short man shift nervously.
“Okay, let’s assume your ridiculous plan works and I succeed in getting Caffrey out. What makes you think I’m not just going to keep driving right across the border and book him for all the crimes he’s wanted for stateside? You do realize that I’ve spent every minute of the past year chasing after him?” The Hawaiian shirt didn’t appear fazed by this suggestion. He had obviously considered the possibility.
“That’s your prerogative, Agent Burke, and I’m sure it would do wonders for your career.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re okay with breaking your friend out of one prison, only to have him go to another?”
“Obviously, I’d prefer you didn’t do that.” The short man rolled his eyes. “But I would rather see Neal royally pissed off but alive in a US prison than have him rot in the hellhole he is in now.”
Peter pondered his options in silence as he finished his beer. He felt the short man’s eyes bore into him but chose to ignore him. He could think of a hundred reasons why getting involved in Caffrey’s situation was a terrible idea. Getting arrested, causing an international incident, or having Hughes tear him a new one definitely ranked among the top five of those reasons. There was a single motive for Peter to go through with the insane mission. He wanted to meet Caffrey face to face. He wanted to look the man in the eye who had eluded him time after time, who he had made him neglect his wife, who had made him simultaneously feel humiliated and exhilarated with an insolent wink into a security camera or an intricately folded origami flower left at a crime scene. Peter knew that single pro outweighed any con he could come up with.
“I’m in. What’s the plan?” He surrendered, hoping against hope he wouldn’t regret it. A genuinely relieved smile lit up the Hawaiian shirt’s face. “Now, before you bring out the party hats, let’s make clear that I’ll reserve the right to take Caffrey into custody the second I have my hands on him.”
“Let’s burn that bridge when we come to it, shall we? I want to move forward with this tomorrow, if that’s all right with you. I’ve arranged a few phone calls to make sure the warden is expecting a US Federal agent. The rest will be up to you.” He pulled handheld navigation system and a cell phone out of his pocket and handed them to Peter. “I have programmed the directions to the penitentiary. There are also instructions on how to get to the villa I’m renting. It’s only two miles north of the resort you and your wife are staying at. I’d like you to drop Neal off at the villa.”
“No promises.”
“No promises, understood. If there are any issues, please call. The cell phone can’t be traced.” The Hawaiian shirt slipped from the bar stool and dropped a fifty dollar bill onto the counter, indicating to the bartender that he would cover Peter’s tab.
“Good luck.” He looked Peter squarely in the eye. His internal debate to make another whole-hearted plea for the return of his friend into his safekeeping played out across his face. He remained silent and extended a hand instead. Peter accepted it with a firm, reassuring grip and a nod.
“Call me Dante.” The short man said and disappeared into the night.
--
Peter’s confident strides belied the nervous energy that radiated from the pit of his stomach to his fingertips and toes. Walking barely two steps in front of him the short and squat prison warden was obviously less successful in hiding his nerves. Sweat staining the back and armpits of his dark green shirt, Warden Alvarez hurried along the corridors of his facility, angrily barking orders into his walkie-talkie. The visit of the US agent had clearly thrown him off balance.
“Agent Turner, I am sure you must be misinformed.” His English was accented but fluent. “The identities of all our detainees are carefully checked against international warrants.”
“I understand,” Peter assured him. “My visit here is by no intention an indication of my personal or my agency’s distrust in your thoroughness and your adherence to international protocol. Unfortunately, Nick Halden has a history of manipulating electronic databases. That’s the reason I have the ungrateful job to periodically check arrest records provided by the US and friendly countries. You have no idea how much time I have to spend behind my desk staring at mug shots of criminal elements like Halden.”
“Yes,” the warden chuckled uneasily. “Few of us expect to live the tedious life of a desk jockey when we enter a law enforcement career.”
Alvarez was furious. He had accepted to take in Halden as a personal favor to Superintendent Juarez. There were rumors of a dishonorable incident involving Juarez’ youngest son. He didn’t concern himself with the details. He never did in cases like this. The money was too good to pass up. Having the superintendent owe him a favor was a welcomed bonus. Problems like Halden typically solved themselves. The unexpected involvement of the FBI certainly threw a wrench in his operations.
Two guards greeted them when they reached the top of the watchtower overlooking the prison yard. The afternoon heat was oppressive, and a persistent hot breeze whirled up clouds of dust among the inmates. The majority of the men milling around the courtyard below tried to make the most of the limited time they were allowed to spend in fresh air. Groups of inmates kicked around soccer balls, while others used the weight benches. Peter’s eyes skipped over the heads of the men below looking for the familiar shape of the man he had been chasing for 11 months. His focus locked in on a slim figure sitting on the bare ground in a shady corner at the far end of the yard. The color of the man’s hair and clothing was almost unrecognizable under the film of grey dust that covered him. The deep shadows cast by the afternoon sun and the patchy beginnings of a beard all but concealed his face, but Peter had no doubt that he had located his target. He motioned for the guard to pass him a pair of binoculars.
“Bingo. That’s Halden all right.” From the corner of his eye Peter noticed the warden shift nervously beside him.
With his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, Caffrey leisurely drew on a cigarette with his eyes closed. Sweat beaded on his dust-covered forehead and trailed down his temples. It seemed odd to Peter that the con man was using both hands to guide the glowing cigarette to his lips. The reason became apparent to a second later when he caught the gleam of the metal handcuffs closed tightly around Caffrey’s wrists. Sweeping the binoculars down the con man’s body he noticed the leg irons on the young man’s ankles.
“You’re keeping him in restraints in the general population? Is that wise?” Peter’s detached tone hid his outrage.
“He’s tried to escape three times already. We’re not taking any more chances,” the warden explained. “Are you positive he’s your suspect?”
“Absolutely,” Peter nodded. Using his walkie-talkie Alvarez ordered for Halden to be retrieved from the exercise yard and taken to his office. Peter kept watching through the binoculars as two uniformed guards in the yard below made their way to where the con man was sitting. Using his nightstick, one of the guards tapped Caffrey’s shoulder. The young man opened his eyes and raised his head to gaze at the guard impassively. His indifference to the threatening posture of the two men towering above him was betrayed by the slightest tremor in his hands as he raised the cigarette to his lips and took a long draw. Peter doubted that anybody but him picked up on Caffrey’s subtle display of trepidation. The guard with the nightstick bent down and used his index finger to flick the cigarette stub out from its dangling position between the prisoner’s lips. Peter watched a brief exchange of words between Caffrey and the guards before the shackled man was unceremoniously hoisted to his feet. The hands clamped tightly around his upper arms kept him from losing his balance as he stumbled between the uniformed men towards the exit. A hand on his shoulder prompted Peter to turn around and face the warden.
“Let’s get the paperwork squared away, Agent Turner.” Alvarez motioned for Peter to follow him. “I’m sure you’re eager to get on your way. It’s a fairly long drive to the airport.”
“Of course.” Peter nodded with an appreciative smile and followed the warden.
Closely watched but no longer held by the pair of guards, Caffrey was already waiting in the hallway outside of Alvarez’ office. Had the situation been any less serious Peter would have thoroughly enjoyed the gamut of expressions playing out on the con man’s face as he recognized the FBI agent heading towards him. Straightening from his slouching stance against the wall Caffrey stared at Peter with a mixture of surprise, apprehension and a great deal of confusion. With Peter but a few feet away, he took a tentative step forward until the guard’s baton across his chest stopped his movement.
Peter came to a halt in front of the wide-eyed and open-mouthed prisoner and scrutinized the puzzled young man. The corners of his mouth drew up in a self-satisfied smirk that seemed to add to Caffrey’s bewilderment. So much for keeping the ever-enigmatic con man’s mask in place, Peter thought. The young man’s mouth closed and Peter saw the letter P forming on his lips.
“Mr. Halden,” Peter interjected before Caffrey could carelessly drop his name and blow his cover. “My name is Agent Keith Turner. I am with the FBI and I am here to take you into custody for extradition to the US.” Peter watched with relief as a semblance of self-control returned to Caffrey’s face, the con man smoothly slipping back into the role of the aloof prisoner.
“Screw you, Fed,” Caffrey hissed from clenched teeth. He groaned when the guard’s baton was jabbed into his side. Peter shot the man in uniform a glance that he hoped looked like approval. Peter turned to Alvarez, who still looked anxious for the entire affair to be over.
“Shall we get the show on the road?” Peter suggested. The warden nodded. He ordered his men to process Halden for release and ushered Peter into his office.
Fifteen minutes later the paperwork was signed and neatly filed away on Alvarez’ large oak desk. The warden seemed visibly relieved by the fact that the US agent had refrained from asking too many uncomfortable questions. Following a brief knock on the door Caffrey was led into the room with leg irons removed but handcuffs still in place. He was dressed in the blue and white Lacoste Rugby shirt Peter recognized from his mug shot, the bloodstain on the collar now dried into a brown and crusty mess. His blue jeans were dirty and torn at the knee and looked to be about two sizes too large as they sagged around the young man’s hips. Peter cringed at the thought that those jeans wouldn’t have been anything but a perfect fit when Caffrey had last worn them three weeks ago. It looked like the con man had been given a chance to wash his face and shave. He had raked wet fingers through his dusty hair leaving trails of dirty water to snake along his hairline. Dirt and beard removed, the bruising on his jaw line, cheekbone and brow stood out lividly against the pallor of his skin. Peter did the warden a favor and pretended not to notice. He pulled his handcuffs from his coat pocket and approached the prisoner.
“Hands out front, Halden,” Peter ordered, his voice bare of any emotion. Caffrey glared at him defiantly from bloodshot blue eyes. Ignoring Peter’s command long enough for the agent to shift impatiently from one foot onto the other, the con man finally raised his wrists. The guard handed the agent a key and Peter busied himself with Caffrey’s handcuffs. The metal was clamped tightly around the con man’s wrists all but cutting off circulation to his hands. His eyes never wavering from their scrutiny of the agent’s face, Caffrey gritted his teeth and sucked in a sharp breath when Peter peeled the cuffs away from the chafed and bruised skin underneath. Peter passed the restrains to the guard and briefly examined the painful looking wounds on the prisoner’s wrists. He smoothed the long sleeves of Caffrey’s shirt over his lower arms and slapped his own pair of cuffs over the soft cotton fabric two inches above the raw wrists. He checked the fit of the restrains and looked up into the con man’s face long enough to catch the flicker of gratitude in his eyes. Peter took a step backwards and opened his jacket for Caffrey to see his handgun tucked into its holster.
“You run, I shoot. Understood, Nick?” The con man’s head tipped in a silent nod.
“Super. Let’s go.”
--
Continued in Part 2.2
Pacific Coast, Mexico, February 2003
“This is beautiful.” Elizabeth stared out the passenger side window, her face beaming. Can you see the ocean, honey? I still can’t believe we won a trip to Mexico. Can you?”
Peter shifted uncomfortably in the driver’s seat. He hated lying to his wife.
“El, I have to tell you something,” he started with a guilt-ridden glance at the beautiful brunette at his side.
“Uh-huh.”
“We didn’t exactly win this trip,” he admitted sheepishly.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fake FBI ID in your carry-on, Agent Keith Turner?” Peter was dumbstruck. Elizabeth looked at him with wide-eyed amusement.
“Peter, we’ve been married for four years. You can’t even lie to me about which of my dresses you like. Undercover training, my ass! How did you ever make it through the academy?” Peter shrugged with a lopsided smile.
“Nothing can prepare you for an adversary of my brilliant wife’s caliber.”
“So what’s the story, Peter? And I want the truth and nothing but.” Peter held up his right hand in surrender, keeping his left on the steering wheel.
“It’s about Caffrey,” Peter growled. “An associate of his, for lack of a better term, called me last week to ask for my help. He wouldn’t explain much over the phone. He offered to pay for our trip if I agreed to meet with him. Beachside bungalow, spa treatments, open bar and all.”
“And you trust him?”
Peter shrugged.
“You don’t trust him, but you can’t pass up a chance to nab Caffrey?”
“I think I have nothing to lose. Plus, we haven’t had a real vacation since our honeymoon.”
Elizabeth sighed in exasperation.
“This beachside bungalow better be nice.” Elizabeth slumped back in her seat and sullenly stared at the breathtaking scenery.
“Don’t worry, honey,” Peter chuckled. “If Neal Caffrey is footing the bill we’ll be spending the next five days in the lap of luxury.”
--
Peter took a swig from his beer bottle. He stifled the ensuing belch with a fist pressed to his lips. At ten minutes to midnight the beachside cabana bar was all but deserted. Snippets of salsa music occasionally drifted downwind from the busy dance bar up the promenade. The top button of Peter’s crisp white shirt was undone, the tie loosened around his neck. A suit and tie was admittedly an odd choice for getting a late night drink in an oceanfront resort, but it helped to remind Peter that his presence here wasn’t for entertainment purposes.
A man slipped onto the barstool to Peter’s left and ordered a shot of tequila. The good stuff. Naturally. Peter mustered him from the corner of his eye. The short bespectacled man wore a nausea-inducing Hawaiian shirt and an ill-fitting sombrero that he likely picked up at one of the souvenir kiosks that littered the beautiful resort town. Not exactly the mental image Peter had concocted of Neal Caffrey’s right hand man. Then again, with Caffrey you never knew.
“Don’t you think you’re slightly overdressed for the late hour?” The Hawaiian shirt asked.
“I’m here on business.”
“Really? What kind of business?”
“You tell me.” Peter glared at the man, indicating that he wasn’t up for small talk.
The Hawaiian shirt heaved a sigh and produced a thin manila folder, pushing it towards Peter on the bar counter. Splaying his left hand over the folder, Peter slid it in front of him but hesitated to open it.
“Just to be clear, the fact that I flew down to Mexico and showed up here tonight should not be misconstrued as a promise to help you.”
“Crystal clear. All I’m asking is for you to take a look.”
Peter opened the file. The 5-by-7 inch mug shot was clipped prominently to the top of the stack of papers inside. Peter knew when he was being manipulated and he silently cursed the conniving little weasel next to him. With his hair trimmed short in back and longer wavy strands flopping into his forehead Neal Caffrey looked like a college kid. A college kid after a frat party gone wrong, wearing the beginnings of a black eye and a split lower lip like a badge of honor. The sizable bloodstain on the collar of the blue and white striped Rugby shirt - Lacoste, Peter noted - was unsettling.
“The arresting officer clipped him pretty good behind the ear,” the man in the sombrero explained, watching Peter’s face intently. “Needed twelve stitches before they could book him.” He was pleased to detect the small twitch of empathy rushing over the agent’s face before the mask of professionalism was back in place.
Peter pushed the photograph to the side and moved on to the copy of the police report underneath.
“The English translation is on the next page.” Peter gave the hawaiian shirt a belittling sideways glance that made clear he had no problem reading the original Spanish document. He scanned the page briefly, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.
“Drug possession and assault of a police officer?”
“To be fair, the joint in the back pocket of Neal’s jeans may have been my fault,” the short man admitted.
“Two counts of assault? That doesn’t sound like Caffrey.”
“The cops were beating a dog in the middle of the local town square. A detail conveniently omitted from the police report.”
“Ah.” Peter straightened on the barstool, his eyes bearing down on the Hawaiian shirt in expectation of further explanation. “What happened?”
“Neal stepped in and politely asked them to stop. They didn’t. So Neal did the only logical thing to do. He pickpocketed their handcuffs and cuffed the two officers to each other. They were confused long enough for the dog to get away.”
“I assume Caffrey wasn’t so lucky?”
“One of the cops pulled his gun,” the short man sighed. “Neal’s never been able to wrap his brilliant mind around the concept of firearms. He didn’t have choice but to stick up his hands and wait for the officers to untangle themselves. They made sure he was cuffed behind his back before beating the living daylight out of him.”
“A dog, huh?”
“Yes.”
Peter glanced down at the police report and quickly did the math.
“That was three weeks ago. When is his court date? Any judge will throw this case out. There had to be plenty of witnesses.”
The Hawaiian shirt snorted.
“One of the arresting officers is the son of the local police superintendent. Neal will never see the inside of a courtroom. I tried throwing some money at the problem, but my efforts were shut down pretty quickly. I haven’t even seen him since the day of the arrest. I’ve barely been able to keep track of him in the system.”
“Where is he now?”
“They transferred him to a facility in the desert, about two hours east of here. It doesn’t help that Neal is here under the alias of Nick Halden. My guess is that they did a background check on Halden and found nada. They figured nobody would miss a guy like that when he disappears on a backpacking trip to Mexico.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” The short man flipped a second folder onto the counter and opened it. Peter leaved through the documents inside. He shot the man next to him an admonishing glare.
“These are extradition papers.“ He held a page up to the light. “The watermark almost looks authentic.”
“I know I could have done better.” The Hawaiian shirt sounded annoyed and defensive. “I didn’t exactly have a lot of time. Not to mention the fact that the guy who could have done the job perfectly is currently occupied trying to look good in a denim jumpsuit. What matters is, will it be good enough to fool the warden of some provincial Mexican prison?”
“And that’s where I come in? You need somebody with the right credentials as a frontman to--“.
“To extract the package. Exactly,” the short man cut in.
“Without meaning to sound selfish, but what on earth makes you think I will put my career on the line for this?”
“Because against all conceivable logic, Neal seems to think you’re a decent guy.“
Peter grunted dismissively.
“And what do you think?”
The Hawaiian shirt blinked at Peter a few times.
“I think despite being a Fed and all, even you believe that the punishment should fit the crime.” He pulled Neal’s mug shot out from under the loose papers on the bar counter and thumped his index finger on it. “And I know that you know that whatever crimes he allegedly committed in your book, they do not call for this.”
Peter exhaled audibly and took to rubbing his tired eyes long enough to make the short man shift nervously.
“Okay, let’s assume your ridiculous plan works and I succeed in getting Caffrey out. What makes you think I’m not just going to keep driving right across the border and book him for all the crimes he’s wanted for stateside? You do realize that I’ve spent every minute of the past year chasing after him?” The Hawaiian shirt didn’t appear fazed by this suggestion. He had obviously considered the possibility.
“That’s your prerogative, Agent Burke, and I’m sure it would do wonders for your career.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re okay with breaking your friend out of one prison, only to have him go to another?”
“Obviously, I’d prefer you didn’t do that.” The short man rolled his eyes. “But I would rather see Neal royally pissed off but alive in a US prison than have him rot in the hellhole he is in now.”
Peter pondered his options in silence as he finished his beer. He felt the short man’s eyes bore into him but chose to ignore him. He could think of a hundred reasons why getting involved in Caffrey’s situation was a terrible idea. Getting arrested, causing an international incident, or having Hughes tear him a new one definitely ranked among the top five of those reasons. There was a single motive for Peter to go through with the insane mission. He wanted to meet Caffrey face to face. He wanted to look the man in the eye who had eluded him time after time, who he had made him neglect his wife, who had made him simultaneously feel humiliated and exhilarated with an insolent wink into a security camera or an intricately folded origami flower left at a crime scene. Peter knew that single pro outweighed any con he could come up with.
“I’m in. What’s the plan?” He surrendered, hoping against hope he wouldn’t regret it. A genuinely relieved smile lit up the Hawaiian shirt’s face. “Now, before you bring out the party hats, let’s make clear that I’ll reserve the right to take Caffrey into custody the second I have my hands on him.”
“Let’s burn that bridge when we come to it, shall we? I want to move forward with this tomorrow, if that’s all right with you. I’ve arranged a few phone calls to make sure the warden is expecting a US Federal agent. The rest will be up to you.” He pulled handheld navigation system and a cell phone out of his pocket and handed them to Peter. “I have programmed the directions to the penitentiary. There are also instructions on how to get to the villa I’m renting. It’s only two miles north of the resort you and your wife are staying at. I’d like you to drop Neal off at the villa.”
“No promises.”
“No promises, understood. If there are any issues, please call. The cell phone can’t be traced.” The Hawaiian shirt slipped from the bar stool and dropped a fifty dollar bill onto the counter, indicating to the bartender that he would cover Peter’s tab.
“Good luck.” He looked Peter squarely in the eye. His internal debate to make another whole-hearted plea for the return of his friend into his safekeeping played out across his face. He remained silent and extended a hand instead. Peter accepted it with a firm, reassuring grip and a nod.
“Call me Dante.” The short man said and disappeared into the night.
--
Peter’s confident strides belied the nervous energy that radiated from the pit of his stomach to his fingertips and toes. Walking barely two steps in front of him the short and squat prison warden was obviously less successful in hiding his nerves. Sweat staining the back and armpits of his dark green shirt, Warden Alvarez hurried along the corridors of his facility, angrily barking orders into his walkie-talkie. The visit of the US agent had clearly thrown him off balance.
“Agent Turner, I am sure you must be misinformed.” His English was accented but fluent. “The identities of all our detainees are carefully checked against international warrants.”
“I understand,” Peter assured him. “My visit here is by no intention an indication of my personal or my agency’s distrust in your thoroughness and your adherence to international protocol. Unfortunately, Nick Halden has a history of manipulating electronic databases. That’s the reason I have the ungrateful job to periodically check arrest records provided by the US and friendly countries. You have no idea how much time I have to spend behind my desk staring at mug shots of criminal elements like Halden.”
“Yes,” the warden chuckled uneasily. “Few of us expect to live the tedious life of a desk jockey when we enter a law enforcement career.”
Alvarez was furious. He had accepted to take in Halden as a personal favor to Superintendent Juarez. There were rumors of a dishonorable incident involving Juarez’ youngest son. He didn’t concern himself with the details. He never did in cases like this. The money was too good to pass up. Having the superintendent owe him a favor was a welcomed bonus. Problems like Halden typically solved themselves. The unexpected involvement of the FBI certainly threw a wrench in his operations.
Two guards greeted them when they reached the top of the watchtower overlooking the prison yard. The afternoon heat was oppressive, and a persistent hot breeze whirled up clouds of dust among the inmates. The majority of the men milling around the courtyard below tried to make the most of the limited time they were allowed to spend in fresh air. Groups of inmates kicked around soccer balls, while others used the weight benches. Peter’s eyes skipped over the heads of the men below looking for the familiar shape of the man he had been chasing for 11 months. His focus locked in on a slim figure sitting on the bare ground in a shady corner at the far end of the yard. The color of the man’s hair and clothing was almost unrecognizable under the film of grey dust that covered him. The deep shadows cast by the afternoon sun and the patchy beginnings of a beard all but concealed his face, but Peter had no doubt that he had located his target. He motioned for the guard to pass him a pair of binoculars.
“Bingo. That’s Halden all right.” From the corner of his eye Peter noticed the warden shift nervously beside him.
With his back against the wall and his legs stretched out in front of him, Caffrey leisurely drew on a cigarette with his eyes closed. Sweat beaded on his dust-covered forehead and trailed down his temples. It seemed odd to Peter that the con man was using both hands to guide the glowing cigarette to his lips. The reason became apparent to a second later when he caught the gleam of the metal handcuffs closed tightly around Caffrey’s wrists. Sweeping the binoculars down the con man’s body he noticed the leg irons on the young man’s ankles.
“You’re keeping him in restraints in the general population? Is that wise?” Peter’s detached tone hid his outrage.
“He’s tried to escape three times already. We’re not taking any more chances,” the warden explained. “Are you positive he’s your suspect?”
“Absolutely,” Peter nodded. Using his walkie-talkie Alvarez ordered for Halden to be retrieved from the exercise yard and taken to his office. Peter kept watching through the binoculars as two uniformed guards in the yard below made their way to where the con man was sitting. Using his nightstick, one of the guards tapped Caffrey’s shoulder. The young man opened his eyes and raised his head to gaze at the guard impassively. His indifference to the threatening posture of the two men towering above him was betrayed by the slightest tremor in his hands as he raised the cigarette to his lips and took a long draw. Peter doubted that anybody but him picked up on Caffrey’s subtle display of trepidation. The guard with the nightstick bent down and used his index finger to flick the cigarette stub out from its dangling position between the prisoner’s lips. Peter watched a brief exchange of words between Caffrey and the guards before the shackled man was unceremoniously hoisted to his feet. The hands clamped tightly around his upper arms kept him from losing his balance as he stumbled between the uniformed men towards the exit. A hand on his shoulder prompted Peter to turn around and face the warden.
“Let’s get the paperwork squared away, Agent Turner.” Alvarez motioned for Peter to follow him. “I’m sure you’re eager to get on your way. It’s a fairly long drive to the airport.”
“Of course.” Peter nodded with an appreciative smile and followed the warden.
Closely watched but no longer held by the pair of guards, Caffrey was already waiting in the hallway outside of Alvarez’ office. Had the situation been any less serious Peter would have thoroughly enjoyed the gamut of expressions playing out on the con man’s face as he recognized the FBI agent heading towards him. Straightening from his slouching stance against the wall Caffrey stared at Peter with a mixture of surprise, apprehension and a great deal of confusion. With Peter but a few feet away, he took a tentative step forward until the guard’s baton across his chest stopped his movement.
Peter came to a halt in front of the wide-eyed and open-mouthed prisoner and scrutinized the puzzled young man. The corners of his mouth drew up in a self-satisfied smirk that seemed to add to Caffrey’s bewilderment. So much for keeping the ever-enigmatic con man’s mask in place, Peter thought. The young man’s mouth closed and Peter saw the letter P forming on his lips.
“Mr. Halden,” Peter interjected before Caffrey could carelessly drop his name and blow his cover. “My name is Agent Keith Turner. I am with the FBI and I am here to take you into custody for extradition to the US.” Peter watched with relief as a semblance of self-control returned to Caffrey’s face, the con man smoothly slipping back into the role of the aloof prisoner.
“Screw you, Fed,” Caffrey hissed from clenched teeth. He groaned when the guard’s baton was jabbed into his side. Peter shot the man in uniform a glance that he hoped looked like approval. Peter turned to Alvarez, who still looked anxious for the entire affair to be over.
“Shall we get the show on the road?” Peter suggested. The warden nodded. He ordered his men to process Halden for release and ushered Peter into his office.
Fifteen minutes later the paperwork was signed and neatly filed away on Alvarez’ large oak desk. The warden seemed visibly relieved by the fact that the US agent had refrained from asking too many uncomfortable questions. Following a brief knock on the door Caffrey was led into the room with leg irons removed but handcuffs still in place. He was dressed in the blue and white Lacoste Rugby shirt Peter recognized from his mug shot, the bloodstain on the collar now dried into a brown and crusty mess. His blue jeans were dirty and torn at the knee and looked to be about two sizes too large as they sagged around the young man’s hips. Peter cringed at the thought that those jeans wouldn’t have been anything but a perfect fit when Caffrey had last worn them three weeks ago. It looked like the con man had been given a chance to wash his face and shave. He had raked wet fingers through his dusty hair leaving trails of dirty water to snake along his hairline. Dirt and beard removed, the bruising on his jaw line, cheekbone and brow stood out lividly against the pallor of his skin. Peter did the warden a favor and pretended not to notice. He pulled his handcuffs from his coat pocket and approached the prisoner.
“Hands out front, Halden,” Peter ordered, his voice bare of any emotion. Caffrey glared at him defiantly from bloodshot blue eyes. Ignoring Peter’s command long enough for the agent to shift impatiently from one foot onto the other, the con man finally raised his wrists. The guard handed the agent a key and Peter busied himself with Caffrey’s handcuffs. The metal was clamped tightly around the con man’s wrists all but cutting off circulation to his hands. His eyes never wavering from their scrutiny of the agent’s face, Caffrey gritted his teeth and sucked in a sharp breath when Peter peeled the cuffs away from the chafed and bruised skin underneath. Peter passed the restrains to the guard and briefly examined the painful looking wounds on the prisoner’s wrists. He smoothed the long sleeves of Caffrey’s shirt over his lower arms and slapped his own pair of cuffs over the soft cotton fabric two inches above the raw wrists. He checked the fit of the restrains and looked up into the con man’s face long enough to catch the flicker of gratitude in his eyes. Peter took a step backwards and opened his jacket for Caffrey to see his handgun tucked into its holster.
“You run, I shoot. Understood, Nick?” The con man’s head tipped in a silent nod.
“Super. Let’s go.”
--
Continued in Part 2.2