The resolve, p.1
The Resolve, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by C.J. Savoie
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is coincidental.
All rights reserved
No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means–electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or other–except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without prior permission of the author.
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-8229-4261-5
eBook ISBN: 979-8-8229-4262-2
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Bank Robbery
Chapter 2: Rod Meets Katrina
Chapter 3: The Bartender
Chapter 4: The Bad Guys
Chapter 5: The Gut Feeling
Chapter 6: Meet Nicholas
Chapter 7: The Escape
Chapter 8: The Arrival
Chapter 9: The Pickup
Chapter 10: The Decoy
Chapter 11: Romance Begins
Chapter 12: The Assault
Chapter 13: The Montenegro
Chapter 14: Port of Mobile
Chapter 15: Caneco Sugar
Chapter 16: The Betrayal
Chapter 17: The Explosion
Chapter 18: A Deadly Shot
Chapter 19: Revenge
Chapter 20: The Costello Cartel
Chapter 21: A Run for It
Chapter 22: Cabin in the Park
Chapter 23: A New Lead
Chapter 24: The Find
Chapter 25: Trust for Product
Chapter 26: The Parachute
Chapter 27: Beth Makes It
Chapter 28: Where’s My Father?
Chapter 29: Miguel’s Plan
Chapter 30: The Vacation
About the Author:
Chapter 1
The Bank Robbery
T
he sun was up, with a few clouds in the sky, and the city traffic in downtown Jackson, Mississippi, was moderate. A slow bustle of people going to and from offices and shops along North Lamar Street filled the air with the chirps of gossip and business offers. The Union Bank and Trust, with its storefront glass panels and stately entrance columns cascading to the recessed front double doors with the brass vertical grab bars, had just opened for business at 9:00 a.m. Nicholas Musso and his long-term boyhood friend and partner in crime, Joey Palermo, sat patiently in a dark green 2001 Chevy Impala, which had a cracked rear light lens and signs of rust seeping through the faded paint on the hood, across the street from the bank. The overweight uniformed security guard sat in the foyer near the entrance doors as one of the bank tellers handed him a cup of coffee in a paper cup she had secured from the coffee shop next door. He thanked her with a half smile and offered to reimburse her, but she refused. Two well-dressed men in suits entered behind her and excused themselves as they made their way into the desk area of the loan officers and clerical section of the bank.
Joey muttered to Nicholas, “What do you think, Nicky?”
Nicholas, with his large frame and a deep, gravelly voice, turned slowly to Joey and responded in a low tone, “Give it a minute.”
Joey responded, “Yeah, but I am getting nervous just sitting here.”
Nicholas factually stated, “We need to wait until they all, like, settle down from their morning duties, Joey!”
A Jackson deputy patrol unit making its morning rounds passed along the street in front of the bank and turned east on East Capital Street and turned on the lights and sirens as it sped up the street to answer a radio call. Joey raised his left hand to his brow and remarked, “Boy, that was a close one!”
Nicholas returned with “Joey, they were not interested in us.”
Nicholas then turned to Joey and again in a soft tone stated, “Now!”
They both descended from the Chevy and walked to the rear, where Nicholas opened the trunk as he glanced in both directions to see who was watching. Joey leaned over and ducked below the trunk cover as he reached in and grabbed a twelve-gauge automatic shotgun and a box of shells. Joey then handed them over to Nicholas and then pulled the second automatic from the trunk. Nicholas dropped a handful of shells in his side coat pocket and pulled a ski mask over his face. Joey likewise pulled his mask with his right hand while he supported the shotgun under his left arm. They both looked up and down the street as they began to run toward the bank entrance, holding the guns pointing upward. Nicholas pulled open the right door unit, and Joey dashed in, now pointing the shotgun with his finger on the trigger as he descended on the bank guard and shoved the barrel under his chin and blurted out, “Don’t even think of goin’ for that pistol!”
Nicholas followed behind Joey and quickly darted into the central area of the bank, raised the shotgun, fired in the air, and yelled, “This is a holdup. Everyone get on the floor!”
Women began screaming, and the men began waving their hands to quiet their screeching sounds while they helped the older ones to the cold marble floors. Nicholas fired a second shot in the air and vocalized in a heavy, boisterous voice, “On the floor, dammit!” Everyone quieted down and fell to the floor.
Nicholas approached the nearest bank teller and demanded, “Put all the cash in a bag!” The teller nervously opened the cash drawer and began stuffing a bag with bills. Nicholas fired the shotgun in the air a third time as trickling flakes of ceiling plaster floated to the floor. He shouted for everyone to put their heads down and not look up. Joey scrambled toward the front doors, clasping in his arms three bags full of loot. The escape was made without resistance out through the double doors and across the street,. They jumped into the dated Chevy Impala and drove away down the street. They pulled their masks away from their heads and headed up East Capital Street and then toward East Pascagoula Street to I-55. Sirens in the distance could be heard blaring with an approaching nearness. Nicholas half smiled at Joey with a partial feeling of gratification at their success, but it was followed with a grim look of concern as the shrill of the sirens became now more apparent.
Nicholas made a strategic move and drove past I-55, thinking that would be the most immediate focal point of the authorities’ search. Nicholas and Joey’s escape plan included time to make it to I-55 and head south to McComb, Mississippi, and hole up in a Motel 6 under false names for two days until the excitement of the investigation calmed down. They would then travel to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, for a period of relaxation and time to stash their loot. However, the Jackson police were blanketing the area with patrol units. They pulled into a Circle K and topped off the Chevy with fuel while they contemplated a route south. Joey filled the tank, and Nicholas looked in the bag to do a quick count of the stashed bills. Joey had paid cash to the cashier prior to pumping, and as the pump chimed when it reached the dollar amount, he returned the nozzle to the holder and jumped back into the car. He had the obvious guilt spelled out on his face and quickly questioned Nicholas, “What is the plan?”
Nicholas, with a worried expression, looked out toward the front of the car and responded, “We need to work our way to Highway 49 and head south.” Nicholas turned the key and started up the engine and pulled out.
They made it to US Highway 49 without any interference from either the local or the state police. US Highway 49 would end in Gulfport, where they could pick up I-10 and head west. They both remained quiet over the next hour and a half as they would pass an occasional state patrol unit. No one had identified their vehicle back in Jackson, and the police department was interviewing the bank personnel and outside bystanders, trying to get any description of either the robbers or the vehicle. The ski masks had completely hidden their faces, and the descriptions of the men who had robbed the bank ranged from medium-build black men to huge, burly white men with loud voices that cussed a lot. No one around had seemed to notice the vehicle in which they made their escape or what direction they were headed from the bank.
The two culprits finally arrived in Gulfport and headed west on I-10 toward New Orleans. They were feeling a little more at ease, as no authorities appeared interested in their vehicle. They maintained the speed limits or within five miles per hour of the limits in an effort not to attract the attention of the cruising troopers. All was going well, and Joey finished counting the money and then blurted out, “It’s $8,218!”
Nicholas smiled and embellished the satisfaction of their success, saying, “Not bad for a day’s work.”
Joey then came back with “Yeah, that will cover us for a couple of months in a life of leisure.”
Nicholas then commented, “Well, I don’t know about a life of leisure, but we can at least live and eat while we plan our next job.” Joey leaned slightly to the left of his seat and, with the proverbial Cheshire-cat grin, responded, “What you got in mind, boss?”
Nicholas, now with a more serious expression, countered with “We will just have to plan and play it out.” He continued, “Baton Rouge and those surrounding towns, like Gonzales and Plaquemine, have a lot of banks. We will just have to scope ’em out.”
Joey then responded, “OK, boss; we got plenty of time.”
Approximately forty-five minutes had passed, and the black of night brought on a feeling of calm until a state trooper’s blue lights approached them from the rear. Nicholas, now with that sunken feeling engulfing his whole aura, blurted out, “Oh God, they got us!”
Joey, trying to resolve with another possibility, interjected, “Wait, boss—it migh t only be somethin’ wrong with the car, or maybe you was speeding?”
Nicholas then veered the vehicle to the paved shoulder of the interstate and looked directly at Joey and with a profound tone reiterated, “No, Joey, I was not speeding!” The trooper turned on the high-intensity light mounted on his left door and announced via his patrol unit’s speaker bullhorn, “Get out of the vehicle, both of you, and place your hands on the rooftop!”
Joey, with the stock of the shotgun between his legs and the barrel pointed at the floorboard, turned to Nicholas and under his breath squealed out, “I can’t go back to jail, Nick!” Joey had just gotten out of the Central Mississippi Correctional Facility in Rankin County four months prior after spending three years for two counts of armed robbery of a supermarket and a convenience store in Brookhaven attached to four counts of molestation of a minor. His probation officer had been trying to locate him for the past forty-five days and had reported him missing to the state police. An added robbery of a bank would put him back in for a minimum of ten years. He was stressing over that thought when he came to the realization that the trooper would not have requested them to both exit the vehicle over a traffic violation.
Nicholas exited the vehicle thinking of his past. Although he had had no lengthy incarceration, he had spent a few nights in several local county jails for disturbing the peace, drunken disorder, and a bar fight over a woman, which had placed a smartass lawyer in the hospital with a broken jaw. As Nicholas placed his hands on the top of the Chevy, he noticed that Joey was still in deep contemplation about his next move and hadn’t even opened the vehicle door. The trooper again yelled out through the speaker, “Both occupants need to exit the vehicle and place your hands on the roof!”
Nicholas screamed at Joey, “Get out, Joey—quit foolin’ around.” Fifteen seconds went by, and it seemed like an hour. Joey remained silent with a slight bend toward the dash and a distant stare at the shotgun still embedded between his legs.
Nicholas, realizing now that Joey had other thoughts and was frozen in his decision-making, turned toward the trooper and, in a defensive tone, with a shrill in his voice, explained, “Officer, he is scared and afraid to move!”
The trooper descended from the patrol unit, pulling his weapon, and as he crouched behind the door with the window down, he aimed the weapon and pointed at Joey through the rear window of the Chevy Impala. He again demanded that Joey exit the vehicle. Joey then turned around and looked at the officer through the rear window. He then opened the door and proceeded to exit the vehicle, leaving the shotgun on the seat with the barrel now pointed toward Nicholas. The officer was now standing on the opposite side of the Chevy, and as he approached Joey, Joey reached back in for the shotgun and in one motion fired the shotgun before the trooper was cognizant of Joey’s action. Nicholas pulled away from the left side of the vehicle and commenced to the rear as he blared out to Joey, “No, Joey!” In a moment the officer looked up, bleeding from his right shoulder as he attempted to raise his weapon, and Joey fired again. Nicholas slid on his knees to the trooper’s side, trying in a tense effort to stop the profound bleeding, and in a look of wonderment at Joey said to Joey, “Why, Joey?”
A second unit was pulling up to the scene, as the trooper had requested backup. He had identified the vehicle from one eyewitness at the crime scene, who was a newspaper vendor a half block up from the bank. The second trooper fired one shot in the air and demanded that Joey drop the shotgun. Nicholas, kneeling by the slain officer, chimed in with the second trooper, “Please, Joey!” Joey dropped the shotgun, and the second trooper rushed toward Joey and cuffed him as a third unit with lights flashing stopped at the rear of the first patrol unit.
Chapter 2
Rod Meets Katrina
T
he sky was a clear blue, and the sun was beating down on this beautiful bright day at 1 Justice Park Drive at the FBI headquarters in downtown Houston, Texas. The well-lit offices were gleaming light from the highly polished ceramic floors as the busy scuffle of the staff personnel and suited agents on phones and having group discussions could be heard. In one of the side, secluded offices with a picture glass window facing the main interior office and half viewed through the window blinds sat Chief Agent Brad Kingsworth. He was having a conversation with Rod Tillman, an energetic young agent with brown, staring, beadlike eyes that caught the female staff’s attention immediately. Rod always had a serious demeanor about his casework. Brad questioned Rod and asked him if he had any leads on the source of a drug cartel funneling drugs through Laredo, Texas, from Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. It was reported that the shipments of cocaine were being transported across state lines and ending up in a remote hunting camp near Natchez, Mississippi, just outside Woodville. Rod replied, “Brad, I just got put on this case, and I am still trying to get my feet wet.” Brad retorted, “Let’s get a-movin,’ boy. Time’s a-wastin’.”
Rod then got up and headed for the door and directed his attention straight at a very sexy brunette staff secretary sitting ten feet from Brad’s entrance. Her name was Donna, and she had obviously always had an eye for Rod, who was tall and thin and had combed-back black hair that was just a tad too long on the neck. In fact, all the women in the clerical personnel had somewhat of an eye for Rod except Lena Fairfield, who was more interested in the other women and dressed the part, which included that hard look that gathered a few facial features in her complexion, which showed a few miles. Rod exited the door, replying to Brad in a low, mumbling tone, “First thing, boss—I’m a-movin’.”
His stare was straight at Donna, who now exposed her perfectly shaped legs crossed toward Rod and said in a very sensual tone, “Good morning.”
Rod then replied with his inquisitive-type voice and look, “Good morning to you, Donna.” Donna was primarily assigned to Brad, or as she would acknowledge him, “Mr. Kingsworth.” He was sixty-two and she was twenty-nine, and she performed most of the clerical and documentation duties for Brad but maintained a sense of independence in assisting various agents on the floor in their cases. Her goal was to become an in-house agent and provide research for other agents to help solve the intricate details from the more difficult cases. She was not interested in becoming a field agent.
Rod continued admiring her sexy knees and legs, which were enhanced by the purple open-toe spike heels she wore. He stopped at her desk and fiddled with a piece of paper. He then said in a soft voice, in referring to Brad, “He is in a mood today.”
She softly questioned, “Where are you headed today, Mr. Tillman?”
He then looked up from her knees and the desk and directly into her sparkling green eyes and saw her lips gently draped across her beautiful smile and perfect teeth and responded, “Oh, the usual, to go catch a few bad guys that are on Brad’s list.” Rod then headed out the door and got into his assigned black Mercury four-door Marquis with black wall tires and drove off the premises in a westerly direction to pick up I-10 to San Antonio, then I-35 south to Laredo. He had a lead with a bail bondsman down in Laredo named Keenan Brucosky, nicknamed “the Brut,” who had provided a $10,000 bond for a Mexican immigrant who dabbled in drugs and sold cars for his legitimate source of income. The Mexican’s name was Carlos Pinetta, and he was originally from Guadalajara, near Mexico City. Carlos was indirectly involved in the transport of drugs across the Mexican border from Guatemala.
The suspected route via satellite imagery was along the coast through El Salvador to Guatemala and then to the Mexican border. Which cartel down in Colombia was the source had not been confirmed. Carlos, although not the actual carrier, did arrange all the transportation and was well compensated and always skimmed a small portion for his street operations. He had gotten caught in Laredo and was set for trial. He had bailed out to stash his cash in a more secluded location to avoid any discovery. When Rod reached Laredo, it was late evening, and he checked into a Residence Inn that he knew served breakfast at the wee hours in the morning so he could be out and about early. However, Rod was going to miss the “early birds’” breakfast because he decided to take in a bit of nightlife about Laredo’s more guy-type taverns and possibly accomplish two kills at the same time. He might get a feel for the drug circulators in town and maybe meet a female companion for a change in scenery and quiet conversation.
