As he trotted back to the cover of the van, he let his eyes roam just in case he’d missed someone or something that could be a problem later. He wanted to hurry so he could be back for the kids when they got home from school. His wife was notably unreliable about being home in the afternoon.

Crouching next to the van, he looked at the transmitter in his hand. His blood rushed as he thought about the imminent explosion. He had just calmed down from watching the spectacular Miami riots and knew he needed another dose of destruction. The devastation he created himself was always better than watching the work of others. Sometimes he’d help others by making something or giving advice on where to plant a bomb, but he liked his own projects more. Helping others was better than nothing. Whether it was Arabs, the Puerto Rican guy or some of the local Nazis, he loved to see confusion and know that he had something to do with it. It had started small when he was a kid. A smoke bomb in the cafeteria made everyone run around like a cat with its tail on fire. The emotional jolt he’d felt had lasted for weeks. The only problem was that he needed a bigger stunt every time to feel the same charge.

He squeezed the transmitter’s small trigger. Instantly the pack of explosive detonated in a sharp crack and a near-blinding flash. He could see the five-foot metal pan fly into the air and crash back onto the hard lime ground.

He drove the van back to the experiment. He planned to clear the area in case anyone had heard the explosion. Stopping twenty feet away, he approached it slowly. There in the center of the metal sheet was a six-inch hole. Perfect. That would do the trick nicely. He gazed at the scorched metal and wondered if this was how Oppenheimer had felt.

Traffic had been rerouted, and Miami Beach patrol cars with their lights flashing were at each corner and along the road. This was a lot of excitement for a Thursday afternoon on South Beach.

Tasker sat, holding an ice pack to his head where Gene had whacked him with the brick of pot. He watched the paramedics load what was left of Bud Wilson into the ambulance and then looked over to Gene sitting in the backseat of one of the FDLE Crown Vics.

“You okay?” asked his supervisor, sitting his squat frame on the step next to him.

Tasker nodded.

“Hey, shit happens. You can’t keep a guy from jumping into traffic. This is a good arrest.” He slapped Tasker on the shoulder, jarring his already aching head. “Good to have you back,” the older man said, standing up to start pulling order from the chaos around them.

Tasker said, “Thanks, boss. Guess I better have Gene booked.”

He padded over to the car holding the surviving prisoner, each step pounding in his head, and opened the door.

Gene’s face had a good-sized red splotch where Tasker had hit him with the plywood. “Where are we going?” asked Gene.

Tasker said, “You’re headed to TGK.” The main holding facility in Miami-Dade County was the Turner Guilford Knight Center. No one seemed to know who Turner Guilford Knight was.

Tasker’s supervisor came up next to him. “Make sure you throw in a felony murder charge for his friend gettin’ squished.”

After what Tasker had seen, the phrase turned his stomach.

Gene started talking fast, “I’ll cooperate, I’ll talk, just give me a break.”

Tasker said calmly, “Gene, there’s nothing to cooperate on. You’re arrested and Bud is dead.” His supervisor came over to the car to hear what was going on.

“I can give you someone else.”

“I’m very satisfied with you. Now, I got a headache, Gene. Can you shut up?”

“Please, I’m tellin’ you, I got something for you guys.”

“There’s nothing you could say that would make me want to listen to you right now, Gene.”

“I know a guy who’s looking to sell a Stinger missile.”

Tasker and his supervisor froze and looked at Gene. Tasker said, “Okay, we’ll listen.”

Bill Tasker watched his supervisor lean back in his cheap, prison-made chair. The heavyset man defied physics every time he stretched his girth across it. Tasker always held his breath during this movement, but so far he’d never had to take any emergency medical action.

“Billy,” started the fifty-five-year-old supervisor, “I just wanted to say you done good yesterday. Made a good arrest. Had one dumb-ass killed, but that was his own fault. Just wanted to say you done good.”

“Thanks, boss.” Tasker knew where this was headed, because he had been waiting for a talk like this the last few weeks.

“I know you got roughed up by the FBI pretty good over this Alpha National Bank shit. But no one here ever believed anything the Bureau was saying.”

Tasker nodded. At night, when things were quiet, all he thought about was his recent brush with the FBI. He knew he’d been the victim of a frame-up, pure and simple. Even though frame-ups are largely a Hollywood invention, Tasker had had an FBI agent named Tom Dooley plant evidence that pointed to him stealing a satchel of cash from an Overtown bank during the recent riots. The real story was still confused, but it looked like Dooley himself had taken the money, though nobody seemed to know where it was, and now Dooley was in jail waiting for trial and the FBI was embarrassed by the whole situation.

The supervisor said, “I know people wonder where the cash ended up, but no one I ever talked to thinks you had anything to do with it.”

“Thanks, boss.”

The supervisor went on. “That’s why I’m glad you got a good long-term case going now. I’m just sorry you’re tied in with the Feds on it.”

“No, you were right, we need the ATF in on this. They know Stingers. And they’re a good outfit. Hard workers, regular guys. I like working with them.”

“I know you’ll do us proud.”

“Thanks, boss.”

Later that afternoon, Bill Tasker sat on an intracoastal seawall near the Bay Front area, talking with a lean City of Miami cop named Derrick Sutter. Sutter had been on the original robbery task force with Dooley and Tasker that had started it all. The two of them caught up on news as they spilt a bag of plantain chips. Sutter had saved his ass during the ordeal over the stolen money, even caught a bullet from Dooley. Tasker wouldn’t forget that.

Sutter stretched his long thin arms as he took a deep breath of salty air. He cocked his head, giving Tasker a look. “You want me to work on another task-force investigation?”

Tasker nodded. “Technically, this is a joint investigation, not a task force.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Task force is a long-term, multiple-case commitment. A joint investigation means we don’t have to get friendly with the Feds because it’s a one-shot deal.”

Sutter was still on edge. “You remember the last one we was on?”

“I recall a little of it.”

“I remember ’cause I got shot.”

“Yeah, I know. But this could be a good case. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to have someone I trust in with me.”

“I don’t understand why the Feds are involved at all. FDLE has all the jurisdiction we need, unless you set the deal up in Texas or something.”

“We called ATF because they have the expertise on Stingers. Hell, they made a great case on the IRA with a Stinger in West Palm. Then ATF had to call the FBI because there must have been a terror-related angle.”

“How’d the Bureau link terrorists to a redneck selling a Stinger?”

“What else is a Stinger for? Doesn’t matter, anyway. They’re in the case, and I want you, too.”

Sutter ran his dark hand over his darker face. “You know I’m still pissed off the damn FBI rejected my application. I think it was a racial thing.”

“I thought it was because you were nine hours short of a bachelor’s degree.”