Murder in the Magic City: A Micah Brantley Story by G.P. Sorrells (ebook reader computer TXT) 📗

“Thank you,” Micah said, ending the call. He flicked the car into gear and floored out into the street.

#

The car rolled to a stop at a traffic light outside of the Pacific National Bank. Inside, it appeared to be business as usual with multiple patrons entering and exiting as though nothing outside the ordinary were taking place. Micah watched as a Metromover rolled past on the rails above like a refrigerator sliding along with frightened passengers. The truth, he was certain, existed somewhere between abject terror and a collective urge to fall asleep from sheer boredom.

Across the street from the bank was an Argentinian restaurant that immediately piqued Micah’s interest. Both because he realized how hungry he was in that moment, and Castillo’s penchant for variety in his culinary expeditions meant it likely that was the building he had been holed up inside.

The light turned green, and it forced Micah to make a quick decision. He could sit in that spot and wait, feign car troubles and hope that the ire of his Dade County brothers and sisters didn’t draw too much attention to his whereabouts. Or he could move to a more obscure location with reasonable visibility of the restaurant. It took little convincing for him to choose the latter as a procession of horns heralded the bounds of his stupidity at not immediately punching the gas the instant the red light transformed into a green beacon.

He quickly accepted the demands of his fellow motorists and darted over to the shoulder drop-off of a nearby condominium. It was early enough in the afternoon that most of the homeowners, those who were in town anyway, were likely out and about, enjoying all the city offered. The chances of an angry homeowner lambasting him for loitering outside their building seemed low. That and he expected Castillo would exit from the restaurant before his current parking spot became a problem.

Micah scrolled to the call log on his phone. He stared at the number he had dialed seemingly from muscle memory, contemplating the use of this newfound power. It was also unnerving that this person’s existence was a mystery to him, as was his connection to them. The who on the other end wasn’t nearly as important as the intel they seemed able to provide. But why did she call me Mr. Sheridan? Those dreams I keep having, they seem so real, almost as if they’re from another life, from his, but why would they be so clear… why would…

Before his spiral into philosophy could continue, Castillo strolled out of the restaurant and into a newly parked limousine. It was nondescript, black paint with plain wheels and an incredibly dark tint on the windows. Had he not watched Castillo step into the vehicle, he wouldn’t have paid it any attention. It almost looked like something he’d seen ferrying kids off to prom each year.

Two other men entered the limousine from either side. Micah hadn’t noticed them previously, but they weren’t anyone he shared even a passing familiarity with. The limousine lurched forward, and Micah followed. He kept his distance, so as not to arouse suspicion, but he kept the black hole of a car in his sights the entire time. Eventually, the limousine stopped in front of a large home on the outskirts of Little Havana.

The structure was most curious. Compared to the standard fare of single-family homes surrounding it, the building stood resolute behind the safety of a large, brick wall with barbed wire placed atop. The front gates rolled into the wall to let the limousine in, before immediately rolling shut behind it. As he drove past, Micah could see two men at the front door, armed with assault rifles.

“What are you up to, Jimmy?”

Chapter 50

Micah parked at the end of the block and strolled back toward the compound. He hadn’t the foggiest idea who the place may have belonged to. Although he couldn’t be certain until he got a better look at the operation behind the heavily guarded walls, it appeared Castillo was playing for two teams. Or at least entertaining the idea.

Two homes away from the entrance, Micah found himself unsure of how best to proceed. Going in guns blazing wasn’t an option–he lacked the firepower necessary to stand a chance. Even if the guards were only passingly capable of using their rifles, it was probable he would suffer at least a few wounds before he could take them out with his peashooter. Stealth would be considerably trickier since he would need to first discover a way into the compound–preferably one which didn’t involve waltzing through the front gate.

He could come back later, once he armed himself, and take out anyone foolish enough to stand in his way. This, he reasoned, was the plan most likely to result in his arrest. Or subsequent shootout with law enforcement. Neither outcome was ideal. A large part of him wanted to catch Castillo amidst whatever deeds the man had now become entangled. Eventually, Micah opted for something approximating the stealth approach.

Once Castillo had been in the home for about twenty minutes, Micah walked over to the front gate. He approached it haphazardly, much in the way one might expect to see a drunk Spring Breaker meandering over to a shiny object.

“Hey, you,” boomed a voice from across the front lawn, “get the hell away from that gate.”

Micah absentmindedly fiddled with a locking mechanism on the left side of the gate. He took his car keys out from his pocket and pretended to place them inside the lock to wiggle it open. All the while pretending to be oblivious to the world around him.

“I’m warning you, scumbag.”

The steps were getting closer, but the gig wasn’t up just yet. Micah needed to provoke the guard to step out past the gate. Out from the confines of the four walls protecting his boss and into a