Velocity

“Because of your attitude,” Escobar said, “I will do it in reverse. Cook you first, then cut off your head. What do you think?”

Robby grinned. The broadening of his face opened the cut wider, and the blood trickled across his lips, into his mouth. He licked it, brought his eyes level with Escobar’s, and said, “I think, Ernesto, that you are a coward who needs big guns and knives and whips to take me on. Because without all that, I’d wipe the walls with your pinche ass.” He made a quick move with his head toward Escobar, who recoiled. “So enjoy your advantage, asshole. Because to me, you’re just a piece of shit.”

Escobar looked down at his knife, tilted it, and examined it as if for the first time. “You think you are a brave man, talking like that. But we will see, won’t we? Because in the end, you’ll just be a pile of bleeding, burning flesh.”

“I may not survive to have my revenge,” Robby said. “But I guarantee my friends will hunt you down. And you will pay for whatever happens to me.”

Escobar laughed. “Your police buddies? I’m shivering in my boots, amigo. If that’s the best you’ve got, I’m disappointed.” He rose from his crouch, walked to the door, and knocked. “Coming out.”

It swung open and Escobar disappeared into the bright sky. The door slammed shut and Robby was, once again, alone. “Not just police,” he said under his breath. “Karen Vail. You know not the wrath you have wrought.”

66

The hour passed like honey dripping from a spoon. Outside, the sky was beginning the changeover to dusk. As the clock ticked beyond 6:00 PM, the fading light was yet another reminder that the day was coming to a close. Vail had made a point of perusing the wall displays in the command center, including the photo array and brass bust devoted to the revered and fallen DEA undercover agent, Kiki Camarena, the building’s namesake. Farther down was a depiction of the decals and logos of the eighteen state and federal agencies that served on the San Diego County narcotics task force.

As the room lights brightened and the sky shaded a deep steel blue, Vail walked into the next room over, the break room, where she grabbed—and downed—a can of Diet Coke. She then paced the hallway, where she fended off Dixon’s attempts to keep her mind focused on other matters. But Vail found it difficult to concentrate on anything other than Robby.

At some point, Mann had ventured downstairs and gotten a status report on the downed SWAT officers. They had suffered moderate concussions and one would likely have a temporary hearing deficit, but otherwise they would fully recover.

DeSantos, after talking with a number of agents and support personnel in the building, now had his sleeves rolled up and was huddled in the corner of the conference room. He seemed deeply committed to working his phone, trying to track down known associates who could provide a lead for them to pursue—some way of narrowing their search in a meaningful manner.

“I’ve left messages,” he told Vail. “We’ll see if anything comes of it.”

“Yeah, well, jury’s still out on the value of Sammy’s lead.”

DeSantos pushed the glasses up his perspiring nose. “You’re a tough person to please, Karen, you know that?”

Vail feigned surprise. “No, Hector, I’ve never been told that before.” A moment later, she apologized. Then she resumed pacing.

When Athena’s call vibrated her belt, Vail startled, then fumbled the BlackBerry as she attempted to answer it.

“Agent Vail, this is Athena from Microsoft. I’ve got some good news for you.”

“I can use some of that.”

“Can’t we all?”

Athena, you have no idea what I’ve been through.

“I’ve run the photo through that Flickr database,” Athena said, “as well as through some new image matching technology called robust hashing that we’ve developed. And I think I’ve got a hit for you.”

“What’s robust hashing?”

“Microsoft Research created it for our digital crimes unit to match up signatures, or hashes, in photos. It’s part of our PhotoDNA software, which we developed for the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children to help them catch child pornographers. The idea is to match color grading variations between known and unknown photos using a mathematical algorithm. It codes the colorations across the unknown image to establish a specific signature that can then be matched against the signatures in a known database. I took your photo, applied the robust hashing, then cross-referenced that information with Flickr GPS data. And I’ve got something.”

Vail felt her respiratory rate drop precipitously. She wanted to speak but had to force air up through her lungs, scrape the words from her throat. “So where is he—I mean, where was the photo taken?”

“The picture appears to have been taken in a desolate area near San Diego, east of the Cleveland National Forest. Clover Creek, to be exact.”

Vail motioned to Dixon, whose attention had been roused by the phone call. Vail rotated the handset away from her mouth and said, “Clover Creek.”

“There are no maps in here.”

Vail’s eyes searched the room. “The PC,” she said. Dixon moved behind the podium and tapped the touchpad. The screen woke, displaying the Windows desktop. “Hang a second, Athena.” Vail dropped the BlackBerry from her face and walked into the back room, where the projection and audiovisual equipment was located. A technician stood there stacking digital media. “Can you turn on the projector? We need to find a map on the Internet.”

“Sure thing,” the woman said. She moved to a stack of electronic equipment, threw some switches, then followed Vail out to the podium. Dixon moved aside and watched as the woman opened Bing maps and pulled up the bird’s-eye view of San Diego. Behind her, on the large rear projection screen, the countryside appeared.

“Clover Creek,” Vail said to the technician.

The woman typed in the location, then rotated and zoomed, and Clover Creek appeared onscreen.

Vail brought the phone back to her mouth. “Okay, Athena. I see Clover Creek.”

“I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got. If you want, I can continue to work on it, see if there’s someone else here who can refine that a bit more.”

“I’d appreciate that. Anything breaks, call or text me. And thanks for your help.” Vail slipped her phone away while eying the map.

Dixon, who was still examining the region identified by Amanda Hu, pointed at the screen. “Look what we’ve got here.”

Vail stepped closer and the bold print nearly hit her like a poke in the eye: three Indian reservations—Mesa Grande, Los Coyotes, and Clover Creek. Given what Turino had told them about some reservations serving as drug trafficking portals, the text didn’t need to be highlighted. It jumped from the screen.

“Hey, look at this,” Dixon said to Mann and DeSantos, who were huddled against the far wall, looking at a display case of Challenge Cup trophies won by the field division.

Before they could move, the command center door swung open with a whisk of air. A clean-cut mid-forties man rushed in holding a sheaf of papers. “Which one of you is Agent Turino?”

“That’d be me,” Turino said from behind the man as he came through the door. “You are?”

“Jack Jordan, NTF. Narcotics task force. I’ve got something you people might be interested in.”

Vail’s heart rate ticked up a notch. “Rob—Roberto Hernandez?”

“No,” Jordan said. “But some definite activity in the area. It’s a bit of a long shot, but Agent DeSantos told us that if we came across something of interest, anything, you people’d want to know.”

“We’re scrambling for leads,” Dixon said. “We’ll look at anything you’ve got.”

Jordan slapped the bundle of papers in his hand. “When the economy tanked and the real estate market collapsed, the flood of foreclosures caused some unwanted side effects. Houses were left empty, abandoned by owners skipping out on their mortgage. Renters lost their jobs and moved out. Home builders suddenly had new houses they couldn’t sell. Bottom line, there are a lot of vacant homes. In some cases, large sections of