Pay Back

By Edward Lackey

Special Agent Stacy Foster has just been promoted to head the FBI's Special Investigations Division. At a celebratory dinner in a trendy Washington restaurant, she asks her boss, Assistant Director Tom Ackerman, how he came to meet up with the two "consultants" that played such an important role in the closing of her last two major cases. The story he relates takes place in 1987 when David Townsend was a young airline captain and his fellow Naval Aviator friend, Billy Ray Benfield, was making a name for himself at the NSA. Returning from a morning run, Townsend finds his lover's roommate on his front step and as he hears her story, his world comes crashing down around him.
The roommate, also an international flight attendant, has become mixed up with a drug lord in Miami acting as a courier for cocaine and cash. When it is discovered that she has been dipping into the cash, the Boss decides that she is to be made an example for the others in the organization. It is David's girlfriend, however, who is mistakenly killed and he is intent on making everyone responsible pay.
Infiltrating the organization and planting the seed for a much more efficient means of transport for the cocaine and cash that it generates, Townsend and Benfield get ready for the final act. With hair raising airborne maneuvers and meticulous planning, the cartel's organization is Twonsend's target for Pay Back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Lackey
• Release date: Feb 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301835577

Edward Lackey

Edward Lackey is a former Naval Aviator and retired corporate pilot who flew Gulfstream aircraft around the world. An avid reader, Lackey decided to try his hand at writing using his military and civilian aviation and travel experiences as a basis for his novels. He is currently working on the continuing adventures of Townsend and Benfield in his second novel. Lackey lives in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

Book preview

ONE

7:20 PM. Georgetown, Washington, DC.

It was a celebratory dinner. And if Special Agent Stacy Foster wasn’t sufficiently blown away at the surprising news of her promotion, the invitation to dinner by her boss was just icing on the cake. Deputy Director Tom Ackerman led her into the elegant reception area of the two story brick townhouse on 36th Street in the heart of historic Georgetown and greeted the maitre d’ like an old friend. 1776 was one of the foremost dining establishments available to the glitterati of the District and the distinctive dining rooms were usually filled to capacity with the movers and shakers in the nation’s capital.

The owner, Molly Rhyne, showed her old friend and his guest to a secluded corner of the Yorktown Room and took their drink order—Far Niente cabernet from Napa Valley—and left the couple in the very capable hands of Rudy, their waiter for the evening. Foster was so overcome by the experience that she wisely elected to allow her host to order for her and simply sat back and took in the elegance and colonial inn ambiance virtually soaking every pore of her body.

When the cabernet had breathed sufficiently to sample, Ackerman raised his glass and proposed a toast, To the new head of Special Investigations Division. This promotion is much deserved and I’m so very proud of you Stacy.

Foster had to take a quick sip of the hearty red wine before she trusted herself to speak. When she felt herself capable she said, Tom, I’m so very grateful for everything that you’ve done for me. When the Director called me down to his office, I figured that I’d screwed up something big time to warrant his attention. When I saw your smiling face I was somewhat relieved and when he congratulated me on my new post, I thought that my knees would fail me. I really don’t know what to say.

About that time Rudy arrived with their salads and softened the mood to allow the two colleagues to enjoy a quiet dinner together. Over dessert, when she saw that her normally socially challenged boss was more relaxed, she brought the conversation around to a subject that she had been hoping to broach for quite some time.

Tom, I couldn’t have cleared these last two big cases without the help of your two best Pennsylvania Avenue Irregulars. You were going to tell me, when we had time, how you got involved with those two characters.

Ackerman looked around and saw that the few diners left in the smallest of the inn’s elegant rooms were socializing and digesting. He thought that the time was probably right to impart a story that very few people in the Bureau were privy to. He poured them both a half glass of their second bottle of cabernet and began, "It was the mid-’80s and I was new to the division when events brought me into a story that I have put together over the years from conversations with David and Billy Ray as well as others involved…

3:35 PM, Tuesday, September 8, 1987. Miami Intl. Airport, Miami, Florida.

The arrivals area for Customs and Immigration at Miami International Airport was normally quite full at this time every afternoon. Today was no exception. In fact, the lines appeared to Inspector Randy Alexander to be longer and slower than usual. It really didn’t matter to him as he had four more hours to go on his shift and then he was off for three days of deep sea fishing in Bimini. As he was the senior inspector on the crew, he usually opted for the flight crew clearance lane for two main reasons: the first was that it required less effort to check in the domestic flight crews as they were in and out of the U.S. more often than the most frequent of frequent fliers. The second and foremost reason was just entering the hall like a Valentino runway model at the Spring Showings in Paris.

It would be slightly inaccurate to say that every head turned as the tall brunette casually strolled along the polished cement walkway. Her dark navy uniform with form fitting, knee length skirt displayed long slender legs that could have been crafted by Bernini himself. Her tailored jacket with dazzling gold wings accentuated an equally impressive upper torso. Since she was in the arrivals line, the audience (growing by the minute) had to presume that she had just come off an inbound flight. But looking at this lovely creature, it was impossible to believe that she was more than ten minutes away from a MGM Studio makeup trailer.

This attention getter was walking with purpose up to Inspector Alexander with a smile that would warm an Arctic night. Her three inch black pumps clicked in rhythm as she pulled her carry-on close behind her. The only thing marring this absolutely stunning performance was the annoying sound of the squeaky wheels on her luggage.

In lightly accented English she said, Good afternoon, Inspector. How good of you to welcome me home. It is always such a pleasure to see your smiling face after such a long and exhausting flight.

Alexander beamed as he took the offered passport as a mere formality. Good afternoon to you, young lady. Welcome back. I see you are in from Bogotá. Pleasant flight? He handed back the passport and smiled the silliest of smiles just enjoying the view.

Indeed, a very nice flight thank you. I have a few days off before I must do it again. I certainly hope to see you then. Adios. She gave a slight wave and walked out of the hall still the center of attention of every male in the zip code.

She made her way quickly through the crowded outer terminal and onto the sidewalk with the teeming crowds parting like the Red Sea before Moses. There was a substantial queue in effect for the long line of taxis ready to take the weary travelers into The Magic City. Bypassing the line that was moving at a snail’s pace, she moved a hundred feet farther along the sidewalk and patiently stood like a statue in the Vatican Museum.

In less than two minutes, a dented, dirty Yellow Cab pulled out of the line and swept up to the lady as if it were a stretch limo on Sunset Boulevard (much to the annoyance of the drivers observing the proper rules and procedures set down by the Transit Authority). The driver, uncharacteristically, popped the trunk, jumped out of his seat and, after she removed a dark blue canvas carryall, deftly loaded his gorgeous passenger’s luggage as she stepped into the rear of the battered vehicle. Slamming the lid down and giving the finger to his compatriots who were showing their displeasure with blaring horns, he pulled out into the flow of traffic and was speeding down the exit lane of the access road toward NW 21st Street in a matter of minutes.

The battered cab made good time on the Dolphin Expressway and was across the causeway into South Miami Beach in a mere twenty-five minutes. Turning north on Collins Avenue, the cab negotiated the busy beachfront thoroughfare with skill and daring. He pulled into the palmetto palm lined circular drive of a fourteen story condominium complex complete with liveried doorman who was racing from his air conditioned station to greet his arriving guest.

As the doorman was opening the passenger door and enjoying the glimpse of lovely thigh he was afforded, the cabbie had once again popped the trunk and placed the lady’s luggage by her side. Without a word, the driver returned to his seat and tires chirped as he sped away.

The doorman, with a smile as wide as the beach in front of the complex said, Welcome home Ms Echevaria. I hope you had a pleasant flight.

Extending the handle on her luggage she turned and accompanied the obsequious little man up the tiled walk toward the cool lobby. Oh yes, Thomas. It was a very nice flight. It is nice to be home for a while, though. Is my roommate in?

Yes, ma’am. Ms Robinette got in from her flight just before lunch time. Thomas was sticking as close to one of his favorite guests as her roller board luggage. Hey, I see you found some oil to take care of those squeaky wheels that I noticed on your departure.

With a smile that made his day—his week—she replied, Oh yes, the crew hotel was most accommodating. Good afternoon, Thomas. She waved and punched the button for the elevator to save her from this annoying little man.

4:20 PM, Tuesday, September 8, 1987. JFK International Airport, New York City.

David Townsend was sad. There was no apparent reason for his melancholy—it had been a very enjoyable flight. His copilot had insisted that the captain fly all three of today’s legs rather than the usual custom of taking turns. The flight engineer, a very junior new hire, had been visibly awed at the captain’s two previous landings that were true squeakers. The senior flight attendant had entered the cockpit about an hour after takeoff from O’Hare and presented Townsend a chocolate cup cake with creamy white icing and multi-colored sprinkles liberally applied.

The sadness wasn’t from the thoughtful treatment offered by his crew, it was because this was his very last flight in the venerable Boeing 727-200. The Harley, as the line pilots called the workhorse of the scheduled carriers since its introduction in the mid ‘60s, was rapidly being phased out in favor of the larger and quieter Boeing 757 that entered service in the early ‘80s.

Townsend was now senior enough to hold a right seat position in the new bird and would rapidly move over to the left seat as more of the 75’s came on line. He was due to start transition training on the 757 the middle of next month after a few weeks of much needed vacation. He’d been on the three holer since he was hired over ten years ago—first as a flight engineer and then over to the right seat. He had been flying left seat for three years now and felt more at home in the cramped cockpit than in his ‘82 Mercedes 300 now waiting for him in the employee lot at JFK.

Just one more approach and landing. He’d make this one the best of the lot. The weather was CAVU (ceiling and visibility unlimited) with light winds out of the southwest. They were on vectors for the ILS approach to Runway 22 Right and were following another 727 on a four mile final.

Townsend clicked off the autopilot and said, Gear down, please Jim. Flaps 30. Landing Checklist.

The checklist was recited by the FE and accomplished by the copilot as Townsend tightly followed the glide slope and localizer down to fifty feet above the rubber stained concrete runway. Townsend retarded the three power levers to idle and felt the ground effect come into play as the huge swept wings floated on a cushion of air just above the runway. With literally hundreds of landings under his belt, Townsend intuitively knew when the trailing landing gear were just a few feet from touching down and pushed forward on the control column ever so slightly. Only the most seasoned 727 drivers were comfortable making a control movement seemingly counter to one’s training. In the case of the long bodied 72’, this movement actually raised the gear slightly and made for a whisper smooth touchdown. The effect of this rolling it on was a landing as soft as a sixty year old truck driver with hemorrhoids sitting down in his recliner.

Townsend pulled the piggy backs up and the thrust reversers immediately began to slow the aircraft to taxi speed. After clearing the active runway on the high speed taxi way, Townsend actually broke into a smile—the first any of his many copilots had ever seen after a landing. As good a way to go out as any!!

4:35 PM, Tuesday, September 8, 1987. Miami Beach, Florida.

Maria Echevaria burst into the condo like the leader of a SWAT team. She took the blue canvas bag from the handles of her luggage and dropped it onto the marble floor. She kicked off the three inch pumps and gave her aching feet a well earned massage. She opened the hall closet and kicked the luggage inside and pushed the door closed with her bare foot. Picking up the bag and shoes, she headed off toward the living room just as her roommate came out of the kitchen.

Hi Roomy. Did you have a good trip Carol Robinette could have passed as a sibling to the new arrival. Both were tall, athletically built with ebony shoulder length hair. Whereas Maria employed professionally applied make up to enhance her beauty, Carol was loath to spend the time and energy and relied on her natural beauty to suffice. The end product for each was enough to disrupt traffic along Collins Avenue.

The similarity of the two roommates ended in their appearance. To their co-workers, the two were as different as winter and summer. Maria brought along her sense of entitlement from an affluent lifestyle in her native Lima, Peru to her new home in South Florida. Those she worked with on the aircraft tolerated her nonchalant attitude and indifference to the passengers. They were not offended when she ignored them on layovers and enjoyed the respite from the rich bitch who was working at this coveted job as a mere distraction.

Carol, however, was the quintessential flight attendant: a brilliant smile, bubbling personality and a genuine willingness to make the stressful few hours of the flight as pleasant for the paying passengers as humanly possible. She loved her job, the travel and the opportunities afforded to her as an escapee from a rural Indiana small town environment.

It was okay, but I am really looking forward to the next few days off. Maria headed for the double door Sub-Zero refrigerator for something to snack on until she decided where she would go for dinner. Maria’s culinary skills were limited and each night she dined out at any of the hundreds of quality eateries in South Beach and then graced one or two of the night spots with her presence—much to the appreciation of the proprietors and customers.

Rummaging around in the well stocked (thanks to her roommate) frig, Maria was once again frustrated that nothing that Carol had purchased appealed to her tastes. Carol chuckled and offered, I need to run out and pick up my uniform for tomorrow’s trip. Can I bring back something for you?

Maria closed the door and beamed a ten kilowatt smile and said, Yes please, can you stop by the taqueria and pick up some of their tacos al carbon. I am famished and it will be very late before I meet my friends tonight for dinner. You know how late they like to eat.

Carol went to pick up her car keys but Maria beat her to it and held up a set of shiny gold keys attached to a round leather fob with a gold three point star. Here, please take the Mercedes. It’s in my space downstairs and it really should be driven more often. You always use your Cherokee and I feel bad.

Okay, but you have to pay the speeding tickets. Carol laughed as she headed for the door. She picked up her fanny pack with wallet and front door keys and waved as she headed out on her errands.

5:05 PM, Tuesday, September 8, 1987. Miami Beach, Florida.

Julio Martinez was bored stiff—literally stiff. He had been sitting on a cement bench for the last hour and a half waiting. The job was a simple one and he just wished it was over so that he could get the hell out of here. He had read and re-read the damned newspaper he found on the bench and had run out of things to think about due to his rather limited imagination and IQ.

He dared not leave his post. The Jefe had made that very clear. His boss, Enrique Gutierrez, was not one to be trifled with. When he said to do something, you did it—or else! To look at him, short—around five foot nine—with an adolescent’s face, you’d have thought that the Big Boss had hired his kid brother to be his chief of security. But when you saw the little man in action even the biggest bruiser would have been impressed—and frightened. What Enrique lacked in altitude, he made up in attitude. He certainly had Julio’s attention when he gave him his orders, You stay there, Julio, until you see it come by and then just push the button. Comprende??

Well, it wasn’t that difficult was it? He took another look at the picture that Enrique had given him. Boy was that some beautiful car! He even wrote down the name of the car—Mercedes 560SL—on the back of the picture. Wow, he had never seen so many expensive cars as he had just watched slowly moving along this busy street.

He knew where to look and each time he saw the black wrought iron gate slide back to let one of the tenants out of their private garage, he checked to see if it was the car he was waiting for. No, not that one; it is one of those German cars—a Porsche. Wait; there is one coming out right behind that one. Yes! Finally!

Julio stood stiffly and walked around behind a white stucco column on the porte cochere of the condominium complex across the street from the parking garage exit. This position gave him a direct line of sight position where he could see the green trash receptacle sitting on the corner of Collins and 18th Street. He was also able to see the bright red convertible turning right onto the northbound lane slowly making its way into a break in the traffic.

The woman in the car—yes, that is her. Long dark hair. Quite beautiful, too. Okay, she is getting closer… He pushed the green button on the small electronic device that looked like a garage door opener. There was a small red light blinking at him—Jefe said