Velocity

“Where?” Robby asked, not making any effort to move.

“You’re not in any position to ask questions, amigo.”

Robby couldn’t argue with that. Still, he knew the tenets of safety: when kidnapped, do everything you can to resist at the outset and don’t assume your fortunes will improve. When they had taken him and had a pistol shoved against his head back in Napa, he figured they were more likely to kill him than pour him a glass of water. Resisting at that point was not wise.

But at the moment, in the darkness at least, Escobar had no visible weapon—not the sparkly handgun nor the blood-tinged knife. While neither was likely far from his reach, it was perhaps far enough away—tucked in a belt or a shoulder holster—that Robby might have a split second advantage. Escobar likely felt he had weakened Robby to such an extent that he did not have the strength to resist. That was not far from the truth. But when his life depends on it, a determined human being is capable of mustering energy and resources no one knows he has.

So Robby made an effort to appear slow and uncoordinated as he rolled onto his knees, while positioning himself in such a manner that he could launch himself at Escobar. He’d become a human mass that, hopefully, would strike his captor forcefully enough to hyperextend his knees and cause debilitating pain.

“Let’s go,” Escobar said.

Now on all fours, Robby glanced to his right at Escobar’s shoe tops. It was time.

68

A black SUV ferried the task force, minus Vail and Turino, toward Clover Creek. Meanwhile, in the darkness of a low-income suburban neighborhood devoid of the orange hue of sodium vapor streetlights, Vail joined Turino and the geared-up DEA and SWAT teams in the sally port of the San Diego Police Department’s Broadway headquarters.

Normally DEA ran its own raids, but given the potential level of violence, SWAT had been called in to run the tactical op. As before, once the area was secured, DEA would assume control of the scene and begin its own drug discovery and evidence collection operation. In this case, due to the presence of the illegal immigrants, Immigration and Customs Enforcement—ICE—was invited to join the raid. However, because of the speed with which the warrant was being executed, ICE would be following a short time after SWAT made entry. The ICE commander was not pleased with the decision to move without their concurrent participation, but understood the urgency.

Vail and Turino, traveling in the SUV they’d picked up at the airport, followed SWAT’s Bearcat and rapid deployment vehicle, as well as DEA’s tactical truck.

Wheels hugged asphalt as the vehicles swerved in tandem around tight corners and traversed the miles in the shortest distance between two points—though their trip didn’t involve a crow and the route it flew.

SWAT pulled to a stop at a predetermined location in a parking garage one mile from the house, not far off the 805, near Palm Avenue. Vail was familiar with the procedure. The team would check in with undercover operatives to determine if they still green-lighted the operation—that no unusual activity had been noted—and to confirm that the cartel members they were targeting were still in the house. If the mission was still a “go,” the agents would move in with the speed and thirst of a shark in bloody waters.

Turino sat behind the wheel, his knuckles white, leaning forward in his seat.

“You might want to loosen your grip, Guy, or you’ll squeeze right through the vacuum sealed plastic steering wheel.”

“There’s a lot at stake here. I’m not sure we’re doing the right thing.”

“Robby could be in there. Your agents have had wiretaps in place. We’re moving a few hours early, is all. What’s the big deal?”

Turino hesitated a moment before answering. “The potential for collateral damage is very high. These cartels, they couldn’t give a shit who gets caught in the crossfire.” He craned his head around into the darkness, eyes narrow and face taut. “The halcones make it very dangerous.”

“Halcones. Spanish for . . . ”

Turino’s eyes kept moving. “Cartels rely on a network of street informants. Taxi drivers, bus drivers, storefront owners. Shit, even teenagers. They’re called halcones, or falcons. Their job is counterintelligence, to be the lookout for the arrival of law enforcement. Started in Mexico and it’s spilled onto U.S. streets where the traffickers are operating. If they see us and know we’re headed for their drop house, they’ll either jump ship if there’s time—or deploy for a firefight. When we circle around back, they could be in a neighbor’s yard, waiting to ambush us.”

Vail’s son Jonathan flashed through her mind. She suddenly wondered if she’d made the wrong choice—going to the reservation would’ve been vastly safer. And the DEA team certainly could’ve handled this op without her, as Turino had suggested. Still, if Robby is being held here . . .

Turino tapped the wheel. He leaned forward, spied his colleagues in the truck. “C’mon, guys,” he whispered. “Make a decision.”

A crackle over his radio. “Green. Repeat, green. Ready to execute.”

Turino lifted the two-way from his belt. “Roger that.” He dropped the radio to the seat between his thighs, threw the SUV into drive, and glanced at Vail. “You ready?”

She pulled her Glock and held the cold metal in both hands, gaining strength and comfort from its stopping power. “You heard the man. Ready to execute.”

69

Robby took a deep breath and pushed his left bare foot against the wall of the shed and sprung his body to the right, into Escobar’s thigh. But he lacked strength and there wasn’t sufficient distance to build enough momentum to do any damage. He glanced off the man’s lower leg and fell pathetically behind his captor. Robby was about to reach out and grab, swing, knock—anything rather than be subjected to another boot in the face.

But before he could get hold, the sound of nearby machine gun fire snatched Escobar’s attention. He bolted outside, leaving the wood door swinging on its hinges, unlocked.

Unlocked. Robby crawled forward on his elbows, fought to bring himself to his knees and then to all fours. He moved to the door and lifted his head. The glare from a halogen spotlight blasted his eyes and brought an instant headache. Best he could see—his night vision was now virtually destroyed by the intensity of the radiant beam—he was in the backyard of a house. Homes all around him—a development of some sort.

His internal voice told him to get up, get out, get away.

Machine gun fire, mixed with the rapid staccato of automatic pistols, blared in the near vicinity.

He saw Escobar off to the far left, in shadow. In retreat.

And twenty feet away, two men toting heavy metal weapons moved confidently into the yard, firing from their shoulders.

Robby stumbled forward, out of the shed and onto concrete. The unmistakable odor of cordite stung his nose. He slammed his face against the side of the structure, scraping his skin against the rough grain of the wood siding, his fingers crawling along its edge, trying to keep himself steady, his body erect . . . hoping the rounds zipping by would somehow miss him.

Then the gunfire stopped. But Robby kept moving—until four hands grabbed his clothing, his shoulders, and yanked him back, away from the shed.

“No,” he said feebly. “No—”

70

Shots fired!” the voice blurted over the radio.

Vail grabbed the two-way off Turino’s seat. “Gunfire? From us?” “Negative,” came the filtered, rushed reply.

As they approached the drop house, Vail heard the unmistakable rhythmic drumming of a submachine gun. The SWAT RDV screeched to a stop at the curb. Turino’s SUV followed a second later, its headlights splashing across the tactical van’s sparse white backside. The doors flung apart and officers leaped out, planted, and pivoted