CIA MIAMI: STOP IT

by Justin Routt

Chapter One

Vega took the Metromover stairs two at a time, the heat pressing into his lungs. Below him, Calder hit the stairwell harder and paid for the exertion immediately. His chest tightened before he was even halfway up the flight. He grabbed the iron rail, fighting to catch his breath. Above him, Vega never broke stride.

At the platform level, the electronic warning chime sounded across the station speakers. The train doors were closing. Vega surged, his boots slapping the tile, but he was two seconds late. His fingertips brushed the steel as the rubber seals met.

Inside the departing car, their suspect stood just beyond the glass. He was young, fit, still breathing hard, but calm enough to hold Vega’s eyes through the glass. A gym bag was locked tight against his ribs.

The train lurched forward, pulling away into the glare.

“Calder!” Vega shouted, pivoting back toward the exit stairs. “Next stop!”

Below, Calder was reaching for his mic.

“Museum Park. Runner on board. White male. Approximately five-nine. Black T-shirt. Blue jeans. Carrying a black gym bag. Units to the platform. Now.”

Vega was moving before the transmission cleared the radio, throwing himself back down the stairs to street level.

Calder’s unmarked sedan hit the curb hard, letting Vega dive inside before the tires fully stopped rolling. Then they were moving, the midday traffic bleeding around them in a blur of noise and reflected sunlight.

Calder drove hard, pushing the sedan through tight openings that most drivers would have avoided. Vega kept his eyes up, tracking the elevated rail line through the gaps in the high-rises.

Calder forced the sedan through an intersection against the changing light. By the time they reached Museum Park Station, the train had arrived and its passengers were spilling onto the platform. Transit security was reacting, but there were too many shifting commuters and too many ways to disappear into the crowd.

The runner was descending toward street level, blending into the flow.

Vega spotted him.

“Left side!”

He was out of the car before Calder fully applied the brakes.

The suspect saw Vega, broke away from the commuters, and ran. People scattered as officers shouted and converged from different directions. Vega was closest.

The suspect knew the neighborhood layout, making sharp cuts through service alcoves without wasting a step. Calder stayed mobile, cutting along parallel streets in the sedan, trying to get ahead of him.

Vega followed, driving the suspect toward the waterfront.

With officers closing off the streets behind him, the suspect broke east toward the bay. He almost cleared the bottleneck before reaching a ten-foot chain-link construction fence blocking his path.

He scrambled up the links.

Vega followed him onto the wire, his fingers locking into the steel mesh. A uniformed officer climbed just to his right, his duty belt clattering against the metal. The frame shook under their combined weight.

The suspect looked down and saw Vega closing the distance. He wasn’t going to make it over the top rail.

He let go.

He landed hard, rolled through the debris, and scrambled to his feet.

Calder came running into the gap. He stopped, raised his weapon, and took aim.

“Police! Stop!”

The suspect kept running.

Calder held his position. The suspect was fleeing, not threatening anyone. Calder couldn’t shoot him for trying to escape.

Vega dropped from the fence and landed on the pavement. The uniformed officer came down behind him.

They ran around the end of the barrier, following the suspect toward the shoreline.

The distance between them was shrinking.

Near the water’s edge, the suspect reached into his gym bag and pulled out a package wrapped in plastic.

Vega accelerated.

The suspect drew his arm back to throw it into Biscayne Bay. Vega caught him from behind, grabbing his arm and driving him off balance.

They went down together.

The package struck the edge of the concrete, tearing part of the wrapping before slipping into the shallow water. Vega forced the suspect onto his stomach and pulled his wrist behind his back.

Calder arrived seconds later, breathing hard. He spotted the package at the water’s edge and hurried toward it.

Part of the wrapping had split. White powder was escaping into the water.

He retrieved what remained, holding the torn plastic together.

“Evidence bag. Now!”

One of the uniformed officers hurried over.

Calder secured the package, then walked back to where Vega had the suspect under control.

“Well, well, Raffi. No longer a small-time hustler.”

Raffi looked up.

Calder held the evidence bag in front of him.

“I have your life in my hands. Care to talk?”

Raffi said nothing.

He looked past Calder at Vega, holding his eyes for a moment before turning away.

Chapter Two

The café sat tucked away from the louder commercial streets, offering the kind of background noise that made it easy to blend in. A faded canvas awning shaded the front. Inside, cold air carried the smell of coffee, pastries, and fresh colada.

Calder sat in the rear booth, his black coffee cooling untouched. Across from him, Vega stared out the window at the sun-bleached street.

“Ten,” Vega said quietly. “Fourteen. Fifteen.”

Calder looked up from his file.

“What?”

Vega didn’t move his gaze from the glass.

“Sixteen. Seventeen.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The stairs.”

Calder looked at him.

Vega managed a weak smile.

“The Metromover platform.”

“You counted stairs during the pursuit?”

“They weren’t symmetrical.”

Calder let out a slow exhale.

“You’re not right.”

Vega sipped his colada, expressionless. Calder watched him, still trying to decide whether Vega was a generational talent or a clinical diagnosis.

“I still can’t believe a small-time punk like Raffi was moving that kind of quantity,” Calder said.

Vega tapped his cup.

“Think he’ll snitch?”

“He’s looking at serious time.”

“A good-sized chunk washed away. They might cut him some slack.”

“With his rap sheet, I doubt it.”

Back at narcotics headquarters, Calder and Vega worked through the case files at their desks.

“We got lucky,” Vega said.

Calder looked across the desk.

“Lucky?”

“Technically, we didn’t have much on him before he ran. If he hadn’t taken off, we might’ve walked away empty-handed.”

Calder leaned back in his chair.

Vega tore a small corner from the file in front of him, folded it tight, and began picking his teeth.

“A week of surveillance, from the Everglades to downtown, and we still don’t know who supplied him.”

“Or where he made the pickup,” Calder said.

Vega examined the paper between his fingers.

“I wonder if he had a lookout.”

Calder looked up. “A lookout? That would mean somebody knew we were—”

Calder’s cell rang.

Calder glanced at the screen and answered.

He listened without speaking.

“What do you mean?”

Vega stopped picking his teeth.

Calder sat forward.

“Since when?”

He listened again, then abruptly ended the call.

“Filthy, stinking judges,” Calder spat. “Every one of them needs to be replaced!”

Vega looked at him.

“Raffi?”

“Out on bond.”

Calder shoved his file aside.

“The judge bought the lower weight argument.”

Vega flicked the paper into the wastebasket.

“How many people do you think touched that folder before you?” Calder asked.

“Have you ever seen anyone touch this specific part?”

Calder stared at him.

“Unbelievable.”

Vega settled back into his chair.

“Who knows where the case lands now.”

Calder pushed up from his desk and stormed into the hallway.

When he returned a few minutes later, he dropped back into his chair across from Vega.

Vega had been assigned to Calder only a few months earlier. By now, he’d grown accustomed to Calder’s outbursts, although he still couldn’t always predict what would set one off.

“We could lean on him to cooperate,” Vega said. “He might play ball.”

“Or we could find his supplier.”

“He’s not stupid. He knows we’re watching.”

Chapter Three

Calder sat behind the wheel of the unmarked sedan, the engine running while the air conditioning struggled against the midday heat.

They were parked near the edge of the off-campus student housing district, one of the areas where Raffi’s burner phones had registered activity before his arrest.

Vega studied the street through the passenger window.

“You should start a workout routine.”

“What?”

“Rowing. Boxing. Something to clear your head.”

“Maybe once my personal life settles down.”

“Miami’s not forgiving. It’s rough on people who stop moving.”

“Must be nice being in your twenties,” Calder muttered. “Every movement for me feels like an engineering problem lately. Can you ease up on the lifestyle coaching for five minutes?”

Vega flipped down the visor and checked his teeth in the mirror.

Calder watched him for a moment, then turned back toward the street.

“How does a nobody like Raffi suddenly start moving quarter-kilos?”

“Why did you choose to move up to sergeant?” Vega asked.

Calder checked his phone.

“It’s clear from his logs he’s peddling to university students.”

Vega shook his head.

“He’s operated along the eastern edge of the Everglades for years. Now he’s pushing weight this far out, directly to students? Doesn’t track.”

“Maybe his supplier is local to the campus.”

“Then why was he downtown, and how did he make us so fast?”

Calder looked through the windshield.

“His phone pings all over town, but barely shows up near his own turf.”

Vega flipped the visor back up.

“What if those burners aren’t his?”

* * *

End of Chapter Three.

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