Watch Out for the Big Girls (10 page)

“So, how does it feel?” Felicia asked Monica. She let out a gust of smoke from the Cuban she was puffing on, as they posted up in front of the Bellagio, watching the water show on the Las Vegas strip.

Monica peered over at her. “How does what feel?” A clueless look appeared across her face.

It was Felicia's turn to cut her eyes over at Monica. She took another short pull of the cigar. “To be the president, bitch!” she chimed. “What you think? You a Double G now!” she followed up with.

Monica let out a light chuckle. Up until the moment Felicia had mentioned it, she hadn't given it any real thought. Her mind had been elsewhere. She couldn't shake the close call she had with Prime. The position she had put herself in along with the measures she had to go to in order to do damage control had her on edge. She was still beating herself up over it. The thought of jeopardizing everything she had worked so hard to become had her feeling uneasy. On top of it all, she was well aware of the fact that if either party found out the truth about the other's intent, she was as good as dead. She could feel Felicia's eyes on the side of her face.

“My bad, girl, I'm tripping.” A huge smile accompanied her words.

“You's a silly bitch.” Felicia shook her head. “Just don't get silly when it comes time to handle business, because this no joke.” Her words came out sharp. She stared Monica square in the eyes as she spoke, never blinking. “One silly-ass move could cost not only you, but all of us, understand me?”

Monica nodded. Felicia's words jolted through her entire body as she spoke in the authoritative tone. She could see why she was higher up in the rankings of the organization she had just recently joined. From day one, since the two had met and conversed at the club, Felicia had always spoken to her in a serious and militant type of manner. If one didn't know any better, you would have thought that she had been in the military. Familiar with it herself, Monica noticed how Felicia's demeanor resembled that of a drill sergeant. But Monica believed that to not be the case. Although she had never asked nor was it volunteered to her, she was sure Felicia came from a rough background. She was sure if it ever came down to it, Felicia would be one of the main ones to watch out for.

The blaring sound of classical music illuminated as water shot into the air. The applause by tourists and locals drew Monica and Felicia's attention to the entertainment behind them. Despite them both being Las Vegas bred and seeing the water show countless times, it was always a beautiful sight for them to see. As water continued to springboard from out of the main body of water, matching the rhythm of the music, people clapped, cheered, recorded, and took pictures. The show put Felicia and Monica in a chill mode. Monica leaned over the light gray stone railing and rested her elbows on it, while Felicia hopped up on it. She relit her cigar and took a long drag.

“If only life could be this peaceful er'day,” she cooed as she filled the air with a mist of cigar smoke.

“Wishful thinking,” Monica retorted.

Felicia chuckled. “Bitches like us don't get the ‘happily ever after' stories.”

Just then, reality set in. Felicia looked down and retrieved her vibrating iPhone 6 Plus from her hip. Unlocking her phone, she immediately went to the incoming text message from Starr. Her eyes did a quick scan of the message.

“We gotta go!” Felicia hopped down from the railing.

“Is everything okay?” Monica could see the change in her demeanor all over her face.

“Yeah, it will be,” Felicia answered as she looked left then right at the ongoing traffic on both sides of the four lanes. “Starr needs us,” she added as she darted into the street.

Federal Agents Mullin and Craven had been tailing Starrshma Fields since she had left Club Panties. Agent Mullin, who was the driver, tried his best to stay undetected, but there wasn't enough cover traffic on the highway to blend in with. At times, it would get frustrating because all the trucks would unavoidably obstruct their view, which was a constant threat of them missing whatever exit Starr would get off.

So far, they felt they had kept a comfortable cushion. It was a fairly easy assignment given directly by Head Special Agent McCarthy. The orders were unmistakable. “Stay on her. Don't let her out of your sight.” Agent Mullin filled up on coffee while Agent Craven tossed back a six pack of Red Bulls like they were Heinekens.

“Where the hell's she goin'?” Agent Craven rhetorically asked Agent Mullin as he flapped his legs open and closed, feeling as if his bladder would soon burst.

“Who knows? That's the whole point of tracking her. It's our job to find out,” Agent Mullin condescendingly retorted.

Agent Craven let the little smart remark slide. “Damn. Well I hope she pulls over at a rest stop soon. What? Broads don't piss?”

“She probably was smarter than you and tinkled before she left.” Agent Mullin chuckled. “Wish ya still had the empty cans now, huh?”

“I'd much rather use your coffee mug. Now shut up and drive!” Agent Craven finally snapped with attitude.

Agent Mullin chuckled. The two weren't partners. They just were paired up by Agent McCarthy because they were both the newest rookies. Agent McCarthy figured there wouldn't be any real excitement or danger to the task, so none of his wild cowboys would've jumped for babysitting a woman. None of them were taking the case seriously yet. Somehow, they felt they needed more proof. So far, in their eyes, the phantom vigilante bicycle Girl Scouts gang, as they nicknamed them, were doing them all a favor. Criminals were finally feeding off criminals.

Agent Mullin was twenty-six years old. He still looked every bit of eighteen. He was a scrawny, red-haired, white kid with a pencil neck who wore a weird-looking pair of glasses. He tried to wear suits to make his appearance demand more respect. Nobody in the Bureau bought it. He was a kid, a rookie. His hands were too clean. Around the Bureau, you were respected by triumphing over cases and high-profile job details. That was how one agent was introduced to another.

Agent Craven was a twenty-seven-year-old black guy already ahead of his time. He had married his high school sweetheart right after they graduated. He got her pregnant shortly after. She stayed home while he went off to college and then entered the academy. He claimed it was all for a setup to be able to take care of his responsibilities, but really it was his way of escaping them with legit reasons. He felt he needed more excitement.

Agent Mullin banged down on the steering wheel as one of the large eighteen-wheeler Ford trucks cut in front of him, blocking his view of Starr.

“Damn it! I really wish I could just cut on the siren,” he complained.

“That would be real subtle, jackass. And it would also defeat the purpose,” Agent Craven sarcastically snapped.

“Whatever. I'm going around him,” Agent Mullin replied. He cut the steering wheel to the left in an attempt to get over in the passing lane. Out from behind him, another furniture truck sped by and crossed in front of the Chevy, sealing off the passing lane.

“Just great!” Agent Mullin sarcastically yelled out as he sucked his teeth. The two trucks rode side by side in front of them. He had lost view of Starr's Maserati, but he knew she was still up ahead because they weren't near any upcoming exits.

A third truck pulled from deep behind and cut on the right side of the unmarked vehicle. It sealed off the shoulder lane. Now, all three trucks cruised together at the same speed, forming a moving wall. None of them had rear license plates.

“What the fuck?” Agent Craven rhetorically gasped as he rose up in his seat.

Before they knew it, two more trucks came from behind them. They split up on each side, one on the left, one on the right. Now the agents couldn't see in front of them or on either side.

“It's a trap! It's a fuckin' trap!” Agent Craven yelled.

“No shit, Sherlock!” Agent Mullin retorted. “Radio it in. Hurry!” Agent Mullin tried to maneuver, but there was nothing he could do. Just as he was about to slam down on the brakes and abort, three more trucks accelerated to seal off every lane behind them, boxing them in while shining their bright high beams directly into the back of the car, blinding them as the reflection bounced off the back doors of the trucks in front, back into the car. They could barely see.

Agent Craven fumbled the radio and dropped it on the floor by accident. He bent down to pick it up. Two loud, roaring sounds came from behind them. The trucks slightly separated opening up a slim gap of space. Two motorcycles with passengers slipped through the crack and approached the Chevy. One was on the right, another was on the left. Long hair was flying from under the four helmets. The two passengers on the back were pointing pistols at the windows of Agents Mullin and Craven. Neither agent noticed the sudden presence of the machines. The girls tried hard to see through the tint with the help of the trucks' high beams shining light through the back, but all they made out was shadows. That was all they needed.

Agent Craven found a firm grip on the radio and put it to his mouth while he was still on the floor. He looked up at Agent Mullin's shining face and then something drew his attention to the window. He released the radio and went for his Sig, but it was too late. Glass from the unmarked car shattered as nine millimeter slugs invaded the window of the vehicle and caused it to spin out of control. The left side of Agent Mullin's face was ripped open and sprayed blood all over Agent Craven. A separate clip was emptied into the back of Agent Craven's own skull while he was still hunched over on the floor. The trucks quickly broke up and the two motorcycles initiated their brakes as the Chevy fishtailed and crashed into a guardrail. It flipped over three full times after the last truck nicked the bumper as it passed by. The trucks honked their horns and then vanished into the night.

* * *

Starr still drove on cruise control. Although she couldn't see, she had an idea what was going on behind her. When it was all over, the two riders who occupied the motorcycles lifted their front wheels up high into the air then let them down, picked up speed, and zoomed past her. That was the all the confirmation she needed to know everything had gone according to plan.

With her problem solved, Starr veered off to the upcoming exit. Once off, she drove to the nearest gas station to the right of her, where she texted Felicia and told her where she'd be once the heat was off of her back. She pulled into the lot, parked on the side of the restroom area, and left the keys in the ignition with the engine running. She removed the rest of her sole possessions, wiped it down, and deleted the car phone's memory chip. She threw everything into one of the duffel bags full of money and awaited her new ride.

Twenty minutes later, two black Ducatis pulled up and on the side of her. The riders were dressed in all black leather, from head to toe. Starr walked up to the one closest to her and took the rider's helmet as she dismounted the bike. She strapped both of the duffle bags to the back of the bike and then climbed on. The driver of the bike jumped in the Maserati and backed up. Starr and the other motorcyclist did the same. Within seconds they all headed in different directions.

Agent McCarthy's house phone echoed through the darkness of his bedroom, while he lay face flat into his pillow. Irritated from his rest being broken, he extended his left forearm out from under the comforter and retrieved the phone. He grunted into the receiver as a greeting. The caller's words on the other end suddenly had him wide awake.

“What?” he yelled as he spun over on to his back and sat upright. He had managed to tangle himself up in the bed sheets and expose his wife's nakedness in the process. The sudden coolness from the air conditioned, chilled room woke Linda McCarthy. She moaned and mumbled something inaudible as she reached for the covers to no avail. When the bright light from the nightstand's lamp lit up their bedroom, she slowly rolled over to see what all the commotion was about.

“What's wrong, dear?” she asked in the softest tone.

He turned to peck her on the lips as he stuck his legs into his boxers and pants at the same time. “Nothing, honey. Go back to sleep. I have to go out into the field for a few hours.”

Linda knew it was something serious, but knew he just didn't want to alarm her. She knew she would get the details later anyway from her job, the newspaper headlines, or both. She lay back down, repossessed the sheets, rewrapped her naked body, and rolled back over in his spot. She watched him bounce around the room in haste before finally cutting the light back out and kissing her good-bye at the same time. She knew that specific kiss all too well. It was the one he used after being reminded that any day could be his last.

* * *

Agent McCarthy floored the gas pedal of his Audi A8 as he ripped through the highway like it was an Indy 500 racetrack. Traffic was clear for most of the way. There was still a heavy flow of semi trucks, but they moved out of the way and warned each other over their CB radios at the sound of the siren's flashing lights that was magnetized to the Audi's rooftop. He felt as if it was all his fault. He forced himself to believe that the blood was on his hands and nobody else's. It was his operation. His call. And he sent two young rookies up against the most professional criminal enterprise structure that he had ever seen or ever heard of. Anger rose within him as his dipped in and out of the lanes, trying to picture how it all happened. Other than the shells, the tire marks, and the area of the murder scene, he was informed that not many clues were left.

The Audi slowed down at the sight of swirling lights up ahead. He pulled over alongside of the dented guardrail, as close to the wrecked Chevy as he could, and jumped out, leaving his door wide open. As he strongly walked toward the scene, he noticed that the immediate area was taped off. The sight was far from pretty; there were countless numbered yellow markers scattered, labeling the shell casings. The air still smelled of stale gunpowder, burnt rubber, engine oil, gasoline, blood, and most of all death. Agent McCarthy walked up to the vehicle and could tell all eyes were on him. The CSIs of the violent crimes unit stopped what they were doing as the other agents spoke in a lower tone than before.

“You see these?” Agent Mullin's bloody head rested on the steering wheel. The entire left side of his face had been eaten up by each bullet that struck him at such a close proximity. Even his shattered teeth were exposed through his skinless jaw. His eyes were still open, staring through the portal of life. Sadly, they were facing the exit. His seat belt was still on. Broken glass was everywhere Agent McCarthy could see. He slowly stuck his head farther into the vehicle and looked back.

He noticed Agent Craven had been thrown into the back seat of the car. Blood leaked from the back of his head and neck. His vest, which he wore on the outside of his shirt, was riddled with bullets. Agent McCarthy also noticed the soiling around Agent Craven's crotch. As he looked closer he noticed something else. He called out for a member of the CSI unit to come over and use a gloved hand to pick up and pull out the strange object. The CSI officer looked at it oddly and then dropped it into a small clear plastic evidence bag before handing it over to Agent McCarthy. It was a blue hard plastic tile with an engraved circular human stick figure with a triangle dress at the waist. Agent McCarthy knew exactly what it was. It was a gender sign peeled off the door of a woman's public restroom. It was a message to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The Double Gs apparently wanted them to know they were responsible.

It infuriated Agent McCarthy. “Let's go, people!” he turned around and shouted. He looked over at the CSI. “You, dust this for fingerprints. Tag and bag whatever evidence you can find. I want to know exactly what happened like I was in this vehicle myself. Speaking of which, get me that fuckin' tape! ASAP! And I want an APB on the car they were tracking! Now!”

* * *

After leaving the scene, Agent McCarthy headed back to the Bureau. He got off of the elevator and went straight to his office. He shut the door behind him, further enclosing the silence of the already lifeless building. It all started to weigh down on him heavily. He removed his suit jacket and tie, and then folded them over the back of his desk chair before strolling over to his file cabinet. He reluctantly unlocked it and removed the folders of both deceased agents. He let them fall flat on his desk as he sat down and just stared down at them. Minutes passed before he was able to bring himself to open them up.

He then reviewed their entire careers and their personal lives. It was all there. Everything was written out on paper. And, now that's all they would be: statistics, he thought. He knew if something wasn't done, the files would be red stamped DECEASED or TERMINATED and would be stored away, probably never to be seen again.

It wasn't like Agent McCarthy hadn't experienced death on his watch or under his command before. That wasn't the issue that ate at him inside. It was the fact that a wrong call he made resulted in two men losing their lives. Agent McCarthy banged his fist on his desk. One thing became absolutely clear to him: there wouldn't be any more slipups or underestimations of any sort anymore from here on out.