Birds of a Feather. Don Easton

pleading for his life … in English.

      Antonio hurried back to the car to report his findings. Adams was still over an hour away and three hours had passed since Patton was captured. The four FBI agents decided not to wait. They also knew what they were about to do was illegal and could cost them their jobs … if they lived to have a job.

      Antonio returned and pounded on the door of the police station with his fists. A voice from within told him to go away and come back later. Antonio persisted and yelled that his wife had been raped. Again, he was told to come back later. Antonio continued to pound and when his fist cracked the glass, a policeman cursed and came with a billy club in his hand and jerked the door open.

      Antonio’s response was to stick his gun in the policeman’s face while putting one finger to his lips as a signal not to talk. The other three agents rushed past Antonio toward a doorway leading into the holding-cell area. Before they could make it, another policeman appeared in the doorway and yelled to warn the others.

      Pandemonium broke out as the agents raced inside. Three of the six policemen in the holding-cell area had time to fumble their pistols out of their holsters, but hesitated to shoot when they saw that the agents had already taken specific aim at them.

      A barrage of screaming ensued before the Mexican policemen backed up a little, leaving Patton hanging like a naked wet rag doll on the side of the cell.

      Patton was left where he was until the seventh policeman was ushered into the holding area by Antonio. Antonio and another agent used their own keys to remove the handcuffs from Patton, whose legs buckled beneath him as he was laid on the floor.

      Antonio ran out to retrieve the car while the other three agents remained with their weapons pointed at the policemen. The sound of screeching tires announced Antonio’s return, seconds before he ran back inside.

      There was more yelling amongst the agents and the Mexicans, who were still pointing their weapons at each other. The agents tried to order the Mexicans into the cell, but they refused. Finally, one of the agents grabbed Patton’s pants off the floor, and, along with another agent, lifted the injured man by the shoulders and dragged him out of the room.

      “The first person to follow us outside will be shot,” warned Antonio, as he and the remaining agent slowly backed out.

      From the front door of the police station, Patton uttered his first words. “The notebook!” he blubbered. “Get the notebook!”

      His comments were ignored as he was rushed from the station and tossed into the car.

      Seconds later, the squealing of tires told the Mexican policemen it was safe and they ran out onto the street. By then, the agents had already turned a corner and sped out of sight.

      Adams received a call a minute later. Jubilation was slightly tempered. They knew every policeman in the city would be made aware of their escape. Trumped-up charges would follow. Charges that would be hard to refute once you were dead.

      “They’ll have machine-gun nests set up at every crossing,” warned Adams. “When you get close to the border, you’ll have to ditch the car and go on foot. I’ll show you where.”

One hour later, the four FBI agents, carrying Patton, staggered back into the United States.[1]

      Patton was rushed to the University Medical Center Hospital in El Paso. He was hysterical, incoherent, and crying. He wanted to tell them something, but kept breaking down before he could get the words out. He was sedated and drifted out of consciousness.

      Over the weekend, Patton was still listed as being in shock and only his wife was allowed in to see him. It would be Monday morning before he had recovered enough to be debriefed.

[1] The four FBI agents were never officially recognized for their act of heroism. Instead, they received disciplinary action for acting on their own and not going through official channels. They were allowed to keep their jobs, but were immediately transferred to separate regions across the United States.

      chapter six

      Early Saturday morning found Jack Taggart slowly cruising through an upscale neighbourhood in Vancouver. He had obtained Earl Porter’s address, which was a penthouse condo on Beach Avenue, overlooking the False Creek marina. Besides his Mustang, the Motor Vehicle Branch also listed Porter as owning a silver pickup truck.

      The apartment building was monitored with closed-circuit television cameras and had a secure underground parking lot, but Jack simply bided his time and gained entry by quickly walking through the garage door after a car had entered. A quick look for Porter’s vehicles resulted in locating his convertible Mustang, but the pickup truck was gone. From the layer of pockmarked dust on the Mustang, Jack knew Porter hadn’t driven it for over a week since the last rainfall.

      On Sunday night, Jack returned to the condo and saw that the lights to the penthouse were not on. He pushed the intercom regardless, ready to pretend it was a mistake, but there was no response.

      On Monday morning at ten o’clock, Jack was scheduled to testify at the trial of several Satans Wrath motorcycle gang members who had been charged with conspiracy to traffic in cocaine. Jack, as an undercover operative with the RCMP Intelligence Unit, normally avoided going to court. He was, however, considered an expert when it came to organized crime and Satans Wrath in particular. He had well-documented evidence Satans Wrath was a criminal empire that had successfully clawed and murdered its way to become an international organized-crime syndicate.

      The club had chapters in dozens of countries and was involved in almost every criminal venture a person could think of, including murder, extortion, drug trafficking, prostitution, bribery, theft, and loan-sharking. The crown was hoping to prove gangsterism charges under some relatively new sections of the Criminal Code.

      It was only nine o’clock and Jack decided he had time before court to make another quick visit to Porter’s condo. His timing was perfect. As he drove up to the condo, he saw Porter’s silver pickup truck entering the garage.

      Jack called Connie Crane, who was a veteran homicide investigator with the RCMP and assigned to the Integrated Homicide Investigation Team. Jack had worked with her on past investigations and although Connie had often voiced her objections to Jack’s style of policing, he still highly respected her.

      Jack quickly filled Connie in on what Marcie had told him about Lily Rae and what he had discovered about Porter from Drug Section.

      “He’s home now, CC. How long will it take you to interview him? Half an hour is all I’m asking.”

      “I do homicides, not missing persons.”

      “Yeah, like all the missing persons who showed up at the pig farm.”

      “That’s a low blow, Jack, even for you. You know how awful I feel about that case.”

      “Sorry … I know you’re dedicated … and overworked. We all are.”

      “Why me?”

      “Next to a polygraph operator, you’re the best person I know at sniffing out a liar.”

      “Thanks, I think I smell one now over the phone. Why don’t you do it?” Connie asked.

      “If you do it and think he’s done something to her, then I’ll try a UC approach. I don’t want him knowing who I really am.”

      “Christ … yeah, okay. I’ll do it.”

      “Thanks, CC. I owe you one,” said Jack.

      “Hey, with you involved, I should be happy I’m not coming over to look at a body. Are you going to wait until I get there?”

      “Can’t. I have to be in Supreme Court at ten.”

      “What? You really do go to court sometimes?” said Connie sarcastically. “I never knew