Mann logged off the teleconference session.
Turino folded his arms across his chest and rocked back on his heels. “I saw in your file that you’ve been working with the Napa Special Investigations Bureau on the Crush Killer case.”
“Right,” Brix said. “NSIB provides support and overflow investigative functions, but their main purpose is narcotics investigation and enforcement. As soon as we were informed about Superior Mobile’s operation, I alerted them.”
“Before I left the office to come here,” Turino said, “we got a call from them. I’d like to have two of you consider staying behind, working with NSIB to monitor the status of Cesar Guevara and Superior Bottling. You’d be our liaisons.”
“You sure?” Dixon said. “That leaves us a bit thin.”
“With Vail and DeSantos on board, we’ll be fine. For a mobile unit, it’s easier logistically to get around.”
Brix turned to Dixon. “Your call.”
Dixon’s eyes canted toward the ceiling as she leaned back in her chair. “Redd, you and Burt. Stay here, coordinate with NSIB and DEA.”
Brix and Gordon indicated their agreement with her decision.
“Okay then,” Turino said. “We’ve got a lot to do before our colleagues from Quantico arrive. And we’ve gotta get down south, too.” He flipped his folder closed. “Redd, see if you can get us booked on a flight down to San Diego. Everyone else, do you have go packs in your trunk?”
Mann did, the others did not.
“Fine. Pack a bag for three days and meet back here in one hour. No later.”
Brix pulled out his cell. “I’ll get us some transportation to the airport, too.”
Turino lifted the handset of the conference room phone. “See you all in an hour, sharp.” He twisted his wrist, stole a look at his watch, and said, “Let’s do it.”
PART 3
ACCELERATION
A puddle of urine covered one corner of the bare cement floor. Across the room, the captive lay curled in a ball to conserve heat. His thoughts were confused, his brain devoid of the necessary fuel to keep the mind churning out the impulses that fired neurons and formed images. Two days without food or water would do that to you. Especially when coupled with what he had endured during that time.
The duress his body had been subjected to was equal to techniques the CIA had used in the farthest reaches of Afghanistan and Iraq during wartime. He had the scars to prove it—emotional as well as physical.
Roberto Umberto Enrique Hernandez was a man of the law. That’s what he kept telling himself. Though he was determined to withstand anything his captors could put forth, the truth was, he had no choice. And he knew it. But accepting the abuse and succumbing to it were two different things. He needed to find a way out, and if there was one thing he had in abundance, other than pain, it was time to ponder potential escape scenarios. Yet nothing of practical value had come to him. And no opportunity had presented itself.
Undercover work was new to him. He knew about it from his everyday work as a detective, but that kind of exposure was like reading how to fire a gun versus actually holding one in your hands, pulling the tension from the trigger, locking your shoulder, and sending the projectile hurtling through the air toward its target. Some things you could learn from a book. Others required the practical experience of trial and error.
Undercover work, he surmised, was like that. But trial and error in this line of work could get you killed.
He was given a private crash course with a retired undercover before leaving for California, but sitting in a room in a briefing is not as efficient as living and learning, experiencing and absorbing over a period of time—a break-in period of sorts.
But he did not have that luxury. He knew the type of people he would be facing: the kind he encountered growing up in a Los Angeles neighborhood that was as far removed from Beverly Hills and Hollywood as is a minnow from a shark on the evolutionary chain.
Robby’s drive to succeed, to excel in life and in his career, had brought him to this place. There was no one to blame—not even himself. If presented with the same opportunity tomorrow, he would seize it without reservation.
Unfortunately, at the moment, contemplating his next assignment was problematic. That was getting ahead of himself. At present, he needed to focus on finding a way to survive, of getting out of here alive.
THE RUSTED METAL DOOR cracked a few inches and a bar of light fell across the urine puddle. Robby rolled his eyes upward—not expending the energy to raise his head—and wondered what they had planned for him.
A large man stood at the door—he had earlier told Robby his name was Ernesto “Grunge” Escobar. Robby easily had six inches on the guy, but their weight was roughly the same. While Robby was lithe and muscular, this guy was square and thick. Escobar’s job was apparently to make sure no one got the upper hand while in his custody. And in his current state, Robby was not much of a threat to anyone.
Escobar was the one who had inflicted the damage to Robby’s body and mind. He had learned his techniques somewhere, Robby surmised. But that knowledge didn’t make the pain any less intense, the torture any more humane.
“Hernandez,” Escobar said. “Let’s go. Up.” He folded his broad forearms across his chest and waited for Robby to drag his left leg in toward his body, followed by his right. He then rolled onto his side and summoned his remaining strength to push up his torso.
“Food,” Robby said in a low, frail voice. “Water.”
Escobar stood there, looking down at his captive. At some point in the next second, he must have brought his leg back—Robby didn’t see it—but he sure felt it. Boot to the face. Again. It lifted Robby off the ground and launched him into the adjacent wall. And that’s where he lay when the lights went out.
63
Vail and DeSantos had been granted a prime flight path and made excellent time with nary a drop of fuel to spare. DeSantos, chewing hard on a piece of Wrigley’s, kept fobbing off her comments about what they had left in the tank, usually with a joke that left Vail more frustrated.
But he seemed at ease, so she finally realized that if it was an issue, he would not only tell her but would be concerned himself. It was only when the low fuel warning sounded that the anxiety rose up in her throat like a bacteria-infested meal. He then explained he had to come in empty because of the maximum landing weight the regional airport required.
“Is that really true?” Vail asked as the wheels screeched against the runway pavement of San Diego’s Montgomery Field.
DeSantos guided them toward their slot. “Yes and no. I could’ve stopped somewhere and put in a couple thousand pounds of fuel, but would you have wanted to waste another hour?”
“Didn’t think so,” DeSantos said with a wink. “Sometimes you just gotta trust me, Karen.”
“I think I just did, with my life.”
“Not really. With only us and no payload, I figured we’d be fine. I’m a bright guy. Time you started giving me some credit.”
Vail rolled her eyes, then unbuckled her belt.
“Hey, Sammy got us this lead. And you wouldn’t have met Sammy if it wasn’t for me. Right?”
They were ushered into the terminal, where Dixon, Turino, and Mann were waiting.
Turino shook hands with his new task force members and they started moving toward the parking lot. He pushed open a door and led them through a hallway. “I got us some wheels from the DEA field division office. Because of who we’re dealing with—and since we don’t know what to expect—SWAT’s been alerted and has been working up a breach plan. They’re prepared to rendezvous with us one mile from Cortez’s house.”
