Cotton FBI - Whistle Blower
Cotton FBI - Whistle Blower
No hesitation, no delay. When it began, there was only one direction: forward.
Tuesday, just before midnight. A November storm was passing over New York early that evening, and icy rain pelted the roof of the black Dodge Challenger at full force. Special Agents Cotton, Decker and Dillagio had been waiting inside for what felt like an eternity for the operation to finally get moving. Cotton knew that the nervousness and impatience were messing with their sense of time - it had only been ten minutes since they parked the Dodge less than a quarter of a mile away from the long, squat warehouse that stretched almost all the way down to Flushing Bay. Riker's Island was little more than a mile north on the other side of the bay, LaGuardia Airport was to the west, and there were a few bottling plants just east of them. It was a truly lovely location.
Cotton squinted into the darkness.
The lights were on behind the triple-barred windows at the far end of the warehouse. At one point, a dark silhouette had scurried past the half-lowered blinds - probably Bobby Gold, their target. Otherwise, nothing had happened. Nothing at all.
"Shit, what are those guys doing out there, anyway?" Dillagio cursed. He was sprawled out on the back seat, tunelessly humming to himself. Over his greasy leather jacket, he was wearing a bulletproof vest, its straps carelessly left hanging down the sides. No problem. Steve Dillagio wasn't a stickler for details.
"I suppose they're getting the lay of the land," said Philippa Decker, who was sitting in the passenger seat, holding a small high-tech radio in her slender hand. With her blond hair, intelligent eyes, and dark combat uniform, she looked like a cross between a model, a lawyer, and a ninja.
"Steve's right," said Cotton, who was crouched behind the steering wheel. He felt uncomfortable in the unfamiliar, tight-fitting vest, which had an unpleasant chemical smell. "The SWAT team should really hurry up a bit. If they keep dawdling like this, Gold will probably be long gone."
"They're seasoned professionals being thorough at their job," Decker said, directing a faint smile toward Cotton. He was still the rookie on the G-Team, and he'd become familiar with this sort of teasing.
"We're professionals, too, sweetie," Dillagio drawled.
"I'm not your sweetie," Decker retorted snappishly, "and I never will be. Understood?"
Dillagio gave her a mock salute. "Take it easy. Without me, we wouldn't be here at all today. You should be thanking me."
He was right. After all, it was Steve Dillagio with his wide-reaching contacts who had called Sandy Overmeyer this afternoon and set the whole operation in motion.
Overmeyer was nineteen. She had left her backwater hometown in Utah to study journalism at NYU. For almost two months, she had been doing an internship at the popular No Stars Just Stripes magazine, which had made a name for itself on the basis of its in-depth social criticism. Through sheer tenacity, Overmeyer had actually managed to persuade the infamous drug dealer Roberto González a.k.a. Bobby Gold to give her an interview. Better still: He would take her to one of his warehouses, where he not only stashed the drugs and packaged them for the streets but also lived. Thanks to his constant changes of residence, Gold had always managed to stay a step ahead of the law throughout his criminal career. He had expanded his empire, intimidated his competitors, and driven them out of his territory. Those who wouldn't be intimidated or couldn't be driven out were murdered in cold blood. Preferably with their throat slit by the serrated edge of a hunting knife. Bobby Gold's specialty.
But something had go