Читать книгу Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 2: 15 Seconds, Killing Hour, The Blue Zone - Andrew Gross, Andrew Gross - Страница 21

“We’re talking about the matter of your personal safety,” Agent Ruiz cut in.

“My safety …” Raab suddenly turned white, flashing back to the events of the previous night.

“Yeah, and that of your family, Mr. Raab.” The agent nodded.

“I think it’s time we explain a few things.” Booth opened a file. “There’s a war going on right now, Mr. Raab. A war of control—between factions of the Colombian drug cartels. Between those operating in this country and those back home in South America. You’ve heard of Oscar Mercado—”

“Of course I’ve heard of Oscar Mercado.” Raab blanched. Everyone had.

Ruiz pushed a black-and-white photo across the table. The face was gaunt and hardened, the hair long, the eyes callous and empty. The chin was covered in a thick goatee. It brought to mind images of murdered judges and families who got in their way.

“Mercado’s been thought to be in hiding in the United States or Mexico now for several years,” Agent Booth started to explain. “No one knows. The people you were doing business with are part of the finance arm of his organization. These people are cold-blooded killers, Mr. Raab, and they protect to the death what they think of as theirs. In the past few years, their organization’s been rocked by some key defections from within. The family patriarch has died. There’s a war for control going on. They’re not going to let some ‘white-collar, Jewish, business-school type’ who’s been living high off their proceeds for several years take down the rest of it in a trial.”

“You’ve seen what these people do, Mr. Raab,” Ruiz put in. “They don’t just go after you, like in those Mafia movies. This is fraternidad, Mr. Raab. Mercado’s brotherhood. They kill your family. Your wife, your lovely kids. They’ll kill the fucking dog if it barks. You heard in the news about that whole family that was murdered in Bensonhurst last month? They left a six-month-old kid in a baby chair with a bullet through its head. Are you prepared for that? Is your wife prepared for that? Your kids? Let me ask you, Mr. Raab: Are you prepared not to have an easy night’s sleep for the rest of your life?”

Raab turned toward Mel, an ache widening in his gut. “We can fight this, right? We’ll take our chances in court.”

Booth’s tone intensified. “You’re not hearing us, Mr. Raab. You’re in danger. Your whole family’s in danger. Just by your being here.”

“And even if you choose to fight this,” Ruiz added, coyly, “they’re never really going to be entirely sure just what you might say, are they, Mr. Raab? Are you prepared to take that chance?”

The ache in Raab’s gut intensified, accompanied by a wave of nausea.

“You’re in bed with them, Mr. Raab,” the Hispanic agent chuckled. “I’m surprised you never thought about this stuff when you were driving around town in that fancy Ferrari of yours up there.”

Raab felt as if his insides were slowly sliding off a cliff. He was finished. No point in keeping up his defense. He had to do what had to be done now. He couldn’t stop the ball from rolling. From rolling over him. Twenty years of his life ripped away …

He looked forlornly at Mel.

“You have to take care of your family, Ben,” the lawyer advised, grasping his arm.

Raab closed his eyes and let out a painful breath. “I can give you Concerga,” he said to Booth when they opened again. “Trujillo, too. But I need you to protect my family.”

Booth nodded, glancing toward Ruiz and the U.S. Attorney with a triumphant stare.

“In return for your testimony,” Nardozzi said, “we can arrange for you to receive protective custody and move you and your family to a secure place. We can work it out so you’ll get to keep a percentage of your assets, so you can live in a manner not dissimilar to how you live now. You’ll serve about ten months someplace—until the trial. After that, you and your family will just disappear.”

“Disappear?” Raab gaped at him. “You mean like the Witness Protection Program? That’s for mobsters, criminals.…”

“The WITSEC Program has all kinds of people in it,” Booth corrected him. “The one thing they’ve got in common is a fear of reprisal as a result of their testimony. You’ll be safe there. And, more important, so will your family. It’s never been penetrated if you live by the rules. You can even pick an area of the country you want to live in.”

“It’s your only bet, Mr. Raab,” Ruiz urged. “Your life’s not worth a dime, on the street or in jail, whether you challenge these indictments or not. You dug this hole for yourself the day you took up with these people. Since then you’ve just been transferring the dirt.”

How are we going to deal with this? Raab thought, the agent’s words hitting him like hollow-point slugs. Sharon and the kids? Their life—everything they knew, counted on, gone! What could he possibly say to make them understand?

“When?” Raab nodded, defeated, eyes glazed. “When does all this begin?”

Nardozzi drew out some papers and slid them across the table in front of Raab. An official-looking sheet headed “U.S. Department of Justice. Form 5-K. Cooperating Witness Agreement.” He flicked the cap of a ballpoint pen.

“Today, Mr. Raab. As soon as you sign.”