Free Black Friday by James Patterson Page A

sense of reality to the gray, wintry half-tones of the familiar streets.
    Sommers, fidgeting with a pair of sunglasses, spoke in a quietly assured voice.
    “Mr. Carroll, one thing you probably should understand about this territory down here. For reasons of morale, in order to keep my men fully efficient and organized, this bust has to be mine. I have to make the calls. These are my men. You can understand that, I hope?”
    Carroll didn’t break stride. His face showed nothing. Almost all policemen were fiercely, irrationally territorial— something he knew from personal experience.
    “Sure thing,” he nodded. “This is your bust All I want to do is talk to our drug dealer friend afterward. Ask him how he likes the nice Florida weather.”

Chapter 19
    THE SOUTH OCEAN BOULEVARD neighborhood was pretty much 1930s Spanish and Mediterranean in style: it was a six-block cluster of pastel blue and pink million-dollar estates. Carroll had the impression of everyone and everything lying dormant around him. People still sleeping peacefully at twenty past eight flagstone patios sleeping, red clay courts sleeping at the Bath and Tennis Club, putting-green lawns and candy-striped cabanas and swimming pools—all sleeping, as if everything had been placed under a pleasant narcoleptic spell.
    Clark Sommers spoke in a steady drone as they rode alongside the glittering, bluish-green ocean. “Real estate dealings on South Ocean here aren’t exactly handled by Century Twenty-One. Most sales are actually arranged by Sotheby’s, the big antiques outfit. Owners in Palm Beach, they think of their homes as valuable works of art.”
    “Reminds me of my neighborhood in New York,” Carroll said.
    Agent Sitts suddenly spoke up from the back seat His long, well-tanned arm pointed between Carroll and Sommers. “That’s our people up ahead there, Clark.”
    Gathered together at one of the quiet, perfect palm tree and sea grape intersections were six nondescript blue and green sedans.
    The cars were parked in clear sight Several of the FBI men were checking pump-action shotguns and Magnums out on the street.
    “There goes the neighborhood,” Carroll muttered. “I hope Sotheby’s not showing any houses real early this morning.”
    The seven-vehicle caravan began to drift slowly up South Ocean Boulevard. Carroll glanced out at the peaceful neighborhood. Every house was set back from the street, isolated by closely cropped, bright green lawns that looked as if they’d been spray-painted on by meticulous gardeners.
    A Miami
Herald
paperboy rode by in the opposite direction, mounted on a chugging mo-ped the same impossible blue color as the sky. He braked to a stop, scratched his crewcut and stared.
    One of the FBI men signaled for him to keep going.
    “That’s it Number 640,” Sommers finally spoke up again. “That’s where our friend Diego Alvarez lives.”
    Carroll tucked the loaded Magnum back into his shoulder holster. His stomach was rocking and rolling and the speed was lighting fires throughout his nervous system.
    The FBI cars turned single file down an impressive side street off South Palm. They parked one after the other in front of two adjacent Spanish-style estates.
    Car doors clicked open and shut very quietly.
    Carroll slipped into step with a dozen or so gray-suited FBI agents. They trotted back toward the Alvarez place.
    “Remember what I said back at the airport Mr. Carroll. I give all the orders. I hope the capture of this guy’s going to help you get what you want but don’t forget who’s running the show, okay?”
    “I remember.”
    Handguns and shotguns caught the hard, bright glint of the early morning Florida sun. Carroll listened to bolt-action apparatus slamming into ready. The FBI agents looked like young professional athletes, as they fanned out in the manner of a dance team.
    Combat
was full
of visual paradox.
    Carroll could see peaceful gulls rising from the sea, lazily sliding west to check the early