Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

sucked.
    Sizemore opened a bottle of beer, scooped up a big handful of pretzels from the nearby bowl, and settled into the best chair in the suite, which just happened to be within reach of the goodies. His love of food in general and beer in particular showed in his belly and his jawline. He wasn’t at the triple-chin stage yet, but he was headed there.
    “Hey, Ted, good to see you,” Doug said. “Heard you had a rough flight out from L.A.”
    “They don’t build the damn planes the way they used to,” Sizemore said, shifting his weight more comfortably in the overstuffed chair. “Don’t fly ’em as good either.” He took a drink and shrugged. “We arrived rubber side down. These days that’s all you can ask for.”
    Doug and Sizemore traded bad flight stories while the politically adept among the strike force laughed and offered their own horror stories. Sam didn’t think having to stay in cheap quarters at a hotel—even though his own apartment was only half an hour away from the action—qualified as a horror story. Kennedy wanted everyone to travel and sleep and work together. What Kennedy wanted, he got.
    Good thing I don’t even have a pet rock, Sam thought. Sure enough, it would be against FBI regs .
    Sam wondered if his stomach could take more coffee. The burning in his gut told him the answer. Maybe Sizemore had a point with the beer. If nothing else, it was cheaper than the bottled water the hotel so thoughtfully left out with a six dollar price tag around its neck.
    The tap water tasted lousy, but it was free. Sam headed for the bathroom. By the time he’d drunk one mug of lukewarm tap water and gone back for a refill, Kennedy had pulled out a notebook and was getting down to business. Standing a few feet behind Sizemore, Sharon took notes by murmuring into a tiny microphone whose head was hidden in her thick, chin-length brown hair. The tiny recording device was invisible behind her ear. She was dressed in a business suit and low heels, which served to minimize her female attributes. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown suit, ordinary build. Easy to overlook even if the room wasn’t crowded.
    But she has the latest spy-tech equipment, Sam thought. Damn, I’d like to have what she’s wearing instead of the crap Uncle Sam supplied to the strike force. I’d need Rasta hair to hide the stuff we use.
    “…and Mendoza,” Kennedy said, “tell your men to ride that border harder. The assholes we’re looking for don’t use passports and paved truck crossings.”
    “What about the airports?” Mendoza asked.
    “Sky Harbor will be covered, even though we don’t expect much. Pass out photos of the known gang members and be watching all the flights that originate or connect south of the border.”
    Mendoza nodded as though he’d been told something unusually insightful. “I’m on it.”
    Sam looked at his warm water and asked, “What about the secondary airport in Scottsdale?”
    “You volunteering?” Kennedy shot back.
    “If that’s where you want me.”
    “Don’t tempt me.”
    Sam drank the rest of his water and thought about going back for more.
    “Okay, I want everybody, ” Kennedy glared at Sam, “to keep in mind that we’re dealing with a highly organized, very fluid group of South American ex-military, some of whom were trained by various U.S. special forces to fight drug dealers but decided it was more profitable to hit jewelry couriers in the U.S. and keep the change. The low-level gang players change from week to week and month to month, but the leaders don’t. We want the top of that food chain, not the bottom. It’s a real old-boy club, so going undercover won’t work. If you weren’t in the homeboy military with these crooks, you’ll never get to first base in their gang.”
    Sizemore nodded emphatically. “The Colombian gang I put away was all ex-military, wise to technology, and brutal to the bone. Hardest people I ever came across in my…”
    …thirty-odd years with the Bureau, Sam said silently, speaking Sizemore’s sentences before the older man could. Nothing has changed since I set up my own security business. I tell you, don’t underestimate these assholes. You’ll be…
    “…dead before you know what hit you,” Sizemore finished. He banged his empty beer bottle on the table for emphasis.
    Warm tap water was sounding really good to Sam, but he knew if he walked out on Sizemore, Kennedy would get even.
    It wouldn’t be the first time. If Sam