“Any indication he’s there?” DeSantos asked.
“SWAT’s had ‘eyes on’ since we first called. No activity.”
Mann pushed through a set of doors. “That would’ve been too easy.”
“Let’s not give up on it yet,” Dixon said. “It’s a starting point.”
With Turino—the de facto case agent—driving the DEA’s black Chevy SUV, they pulled up in front of a house in the tony beach community of La Jolla—one of the most expensive areas in the nation, with homes topping out at $20 million and
The white oversize SWAT RDV, or rapid deployment vehicle, and black armored Bearcat were parked and waiting. The mission leader—the tactical commander—was standing by his command car. The large double doors of the RDV, a Ford E-450 Super Duty, were swung wide, revealing the utilitarian steel interior and twenty tactical officers—the equation was two men per room—in full garb.
Turino left the SUV to make contact while the others remained in their seats.
“Been awhile since I went on a raid like this,” Mann said. “Hope the asshole’s there. Be a pleasure interrogating shit like him.”
“You’ve dealt with people like this,” Vail said to DeSantos. “What’s your take?”
“Cortez? Long gone. As soon as he got wind Hernandez is a UC, he went into retreat mode. Probably won’t be back here for a while, if ever. He knows we’re looking for him, so finding him’s going to be a challenge. With a huge cache of dough to draw on, I’m sure he’s got some secure, off-the-grid places he can go. Homes owned by a shell corporation or in someone else’s name. Very, very tough to track shit like that unless we can grab up an associate who can give us something. But finding a guy willing to squeal on one of the most violent cartel families ain’t gonna be easy.”
“Even though we’ve issued a BOLO,” Mann said, referring to law enforcement’s Be On The Lookout alert, “guys like Cortez have ways of getting across the border without going through traditional channels.”
Dixon grabbed the seatback and pulled herself forward. “So he could’ve already fled to Mexico.”
DeSantos extracted the package of gum from his pocket. “I’m not sure poking around his house will give us much.”
Through the SUV window, Vail took in the stylish beach homes all around her. “To a trained eye, going through his place could tell us a lot. If we know where to look.”
DeSantos folded a slice of gum into his mouth. “Such as?”
She twisted her lips. “Don’t know yet. I’m a behavioral analyst. I’ve spent my career studying human behavior. I’ve never applied it to something like this, but why the hell not? I’ll see if something hits me.”
Turino came back toward their vehicle. “We’re good to go. Eyes on the house haven’t seen any movement. They did a covert canvass of the immediate neighbors. No one’s seen any activity in days.”
“Since they discovered Robby’s a UC,” Vail said.
Up ahead, several of the SWAT officers hopped onto the Bearcat’s steel exterior skids and prepared to make the short ride to the Cortez estate. Hanging off the sides of the vehicle, they would be ready to deploy the second the Bearcat drew to a stop.
Turino yanked the gearshift into drive. As he pulled away from the curb, following the SWAT vehicle, he said, “They’ll go in first, clear the house. We’ll follow. Anybody got a problem with that?”
“I just hope they don’t destroy anything on the way in,” Vail said. “I need to see everything as Cortez left it.”
“I’ll let ’em know. While they’re watching out for loaded AK-47s poking around the edges of doors, I’ll make sure they wipe their feet so they don’t dirty the carpet.”
Vail smirked. “I meant we need to preserve—”
“I know what you meant.”
Vail felt like cracking Turino across the noggin but thought better of it. Her objective was to find Robby, and at the moment she needed the agent’s assistance.
They approached Cortez’s home, which was on a hill near a country club overlooking the ocean. Vail craned her neck to peer out the window. Beyond the town of La Jolla, which sported white buildings, red tile roofs, and groupings of palm trees, pristine sky blue-tinted water stretched into infinity, sun glinting off its surface.
She pulled her gaze from the window and her Glock from its holster. The others in the SUV followed suit.
The two SWAT vehicles pulled to a hard stop in front of the Cortez estate. Turino brought their Chevy perpendicular to the wide vehicles. Next came two patrol cars, approaching from opposite ends, to block traffic from entering the street. Turino shoved the shift into park.
The SWAT officers leaped from the Bearcat, then fanned out as they neared the white brick structure, MP-5 submachine guns at the ready. A stone fence wrapped around the home, providing a slight but insignificant impediment as the officers scaled it with aplomb.
The mission leader issued hand signals and his contingent took their positions.
The task force followed SWAT toward the house, pistols gripped in both hands, pointed at a 45 degree angle toward the ground. Over the fence and down the slate steps they went, some remaining out front, others taking up a position at either side of the mansion—but they remained along the perimeter and waited to advance until SWAT gave the all-clear. This was SWAT’s show until the structure was secure.
The mission leader checked with his charges. Everyone was in position.
He fisted his hand and rapped on the walnut door. Knock and notice, an “844” in the penal code. Warrant in hand, they didn’t need to be nice about it—just efficient. “San Diego Police with a search warrant demanding entry!”
Another officer tossed two flash bangs away from the team, below the side living room windows. They exploded and lit up the area. The intent was shock and awe—to let the occupants get the sense they were overpowered before they could figure out what was playing out on their front lawn.
Normally SWAT would’ve driven the Bearcat up to the door and used the ram device built into the bumper. But because of the stone wall and uneven terrain of the front yard, they were forced to use a compact battering ram. The mission leader waited a beat, then motioned to the breach specialist, who moved into position, then swung back the weighted device.
Austin Mann’s scream came a second too late, as the officer had already brought the heavy cylinder forward, arcing through the air and smashing into the wood door.
Mann’s “Stop!” was followed a split second later by the concussive force of a thunderous blast. Windows blew out, wood splintered, and bodies flew backward.
Vail charged forward. “Shit!”
DeSantos and Dixon followed, assisting Vail by grabbing the arms of the fallen SWAT officers and dragging them out behind the Bearcat.
“What the hell happened?” Dixon asked.
“They’re alive,” Vail said, checking pulses.
“Officers down,” Turino shouted, the two-way pressed against his ear. “Medics up!” He looked back toward the house. “Goddamn son of a bitch.”
Two Special Trauma and Rescue personnel, kits in hand, hurtled the low wall and immediately began attending to the downed men.
Mann stood there staring at the gaping hole. “I saw it right before they blasted the door open.”
“Saw what?” DeSantos asked.
“Countersurveillance camera.” He threw out a hand, motioning toward the trees. “I thought, could just be good security. But then I turned back to the door. And I saw it, the trip wire. Hard to see from the breacher’s angle, but from where I was, it caught my eye. And in that split second, I thought, shit, the door might be rigged, too. Soon as he busted it open—”
“Sometimes that’s the way shit goes down,” DeSantos said. “Beating yourself up won’t help.”
Mann kicked at a tuft of grass that had been dislodged by their trampling on the lawn. It went flying toward the carnage strewn across the front of the house. “I’m the ATF agent here. Should’ve been first thing on my mind.”
Dixon jutted her chin out, indicating the geared-up men. “Why don’t you get over there, see if they need your
