was in the rear seat of a car. Two men were in front. From this angle, and in this light, he couldn’t see either of their faces. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly together. His cop instincts kicked in, and he realized that the best strategy he could take at the moment would be to remain quiet and still. He needed to listen and observe, see if he could ascertain who his captors were.
His chief concern: was he better off now, or as he was before, in the shed? It was hard to imagine his fortunes having shifted for the worse. But until he knew what was going on, it was better to reserve judgment. For all he knew, he was headed to the chopping block and acid bath Escobar had promised.
“If Cortez finds out what we did,” the driver said in Spanish, “we’re dead men.”
“Only you, me, and Mr. Villarreal know it was us. Those two back at the house won’t be talking. And I think it goes without saying Mr. Villarreal won’t be having dinner with Cortez anytime soon.”
The driver squirmed in his seat. “Still.”
The passenger pointed to the opposing lanes of traffic. “Look.”
Approaching with their lightbars blazing were three San Diego PD cruisers. And coming up behind them, another three.
“Fuck me. What do we do?”
“Keep calm,” the passenger said. “Look in your mirror, tell me what they’re doing.”
He lifted his eyes to the rearview. “Looks like they’re slowing all the lanes. Shit, man, they’re starting a roadblock. You were right, we shoulda put him in the trunk. If they stop us—”
“Wait a minute. You fucking kidding me? A roadblock—
The driver cracked a wicked laugh laced with relief. “Are we lucky or what, bro?”
“Maybe we’ve got some Irish in our Mexican blood.”
“Whatever it is, I don’t care.” He slapped the steering wheel. “We’re on our way now. Nothin’s gonna stop us.”
Robby wanted to sneak a peek at the passenger. Something about the voice sounded familiar. Where had he heard it before? He dared not open his eyes again. He needed to continue listening, and if they thought he was still unconscious, they may say something he could use.
He had already learned that Carlos Cortez no longer had custody of him. Presumably, that was a positive development. But he’d also discovered that his new captors, possibly a rival cartel, had evaded the roadblock. That, certainly, was not a good thing.
Robby had also snatched one other morsel of intel: they were “on their way.” Question was, on their way to
73
Turino knelt down and used a pen to nudge the assault rifle that the dead cartel member was still clutching. “
Vail crouched beside him. “Come again?”
“Goat horn. Basically, it’s their nickname for an AK-47, a favorite weapon of cartel gunmen.” He pointed with his pen. “It refers to the magazine’s curved shape. See?”
“Yeah, it’s curved. So what?”
“They’re moving to higher-powered weapons. Stuff like .50-caliber machine guns and 40-millimeter grenade launchers.
“Those of you who’ve just arrived. Leave everything as is. Don’t pick up a shell casing, don’t dust for prints. We’ve taken photos and video, that’s it. Right now, the focus is on helping ICE get the immigrants out of here ASAP. They’re gonna process them offsite at our staging area, in the parking garage. Any cartel members come by here, we want them to see that mess in the yard. They’ll know it was the work of a rival cartel. If they’re looking for Hernandez, hopefully they’ll think he was snatched up. It’s cover for us. We lucked out here big time. Okay, let’s move! We’ve already been here too long.”
As the personnel dispersed, Vail corralled Turino. “So you think a rival cartel grabbed him?”
“That’s what my gut says. Look at the spray of rounds. It was an aggressive move. Who else would know, or even care, about Hernandez? Gotta be another cartel. Leverage or bragging rights, I’m not sure. But Cortez no longer has Hernandez. I think that’s safe to assume.”
“And how exactly did we luck out? Whatever happened here, whoever it was, they took Robby.”
Turino walked through the kitchen, headed to the front of the house, rubbernecking his head, checking out the progress of his orders. “You’re thinking of one person, Karen. I’m thinking about a major op that’s been in the works for years, that’ll get a ton of drugs off the street and put thousands of major dealers and money launderers behind bars. So if we can cover our tracks by using an intercartel conflict and let them think we weren’t even here, and if Velocity stays intact as a result, yeah, we lucked out.” He stopped and faced her. “Big time.”
“I thought we were on the same side here.”
Turino squinted. “You just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t a war on drugs; it’s a series of battles. And the more battles we lose, the more they win. And their wins mean they dig their claws in deeper, degrading our society like a cancer.”
“You don’t have to lecture me on the dangers of illicit drugs. I get it.”
“Do you? I’ve lived and breathed this every day for the past twenty-eight years. I’ve seen stuff you don’t even want to know about. Ice chests full of severed heads. Burned bodies left on a playground so kids would find them in the morning when they came to play and know, at a young age, that you don’t mess around with the cartels. This stuff is making its way from Mexico into
“I’ve seen bad shit, too,” Vail said. “Probably a lot worse than what you’ve seen. But this isn’t a pissing contest, Guy. I just want Robby back alive. He’s a federal agent, a member of your team. We owe him.”
“DEA is family to me. I get what you’re saying. I do.”
“Then I don’t see any reason why we can’t accomplish both goals—protecting Velocity and finding Robby. Do you?”
Turino sighed, then pointed at one of the San Diego police officers. “Pack that shit up and get it out of here. We’re running out of time. Five minutes, I wanna be outta here!” He pulled his BlackBerry and, while thumbing the joystick, he said to Vail, “You’re right, okay? We’re on the same team. We’ll do everything we can to get Hernandez back. Now let me do my thing so we don’t screw this up.”
Vail watched as Turino grabbed a duffel and slung it across his shoulder. She unfolded Robby’s leather jacket and slipped it on. It was ridiculously large on her, but she didn’t care. She walked outside, rolled up the sleeves, then sat down on the curb and drew the front closed.
74
Hector DeSantos, having run incursions not unlike this one, took the strategic lead. While Mann drove, he pored over the regional map in consultation with his contacts, who knew tribal commissions and the best way to approach them.
His phone rang as they were nearing the turnoff for the reservation. It was Jack Jordan.
“Your team’s headed to Clover Creek, right?”
“That’s affirmative. We’re a few minutes out.”
“Got some good news. That photo Agent Vail dropped off earlier. We got a hit on the two guys in it. The one to the right of Carlos Cortez is Ernesto ‘Grunge’ Escobar and the one to his left is Arturo Figueroa.”
“You’ll have to help me out, Jack. This is your sandbox, not mine.”
“There aren’t many guys Cortez lets into his inner circle, but these two made the grade. Escobar is a mean SOB known for torture and brutal murder. Figueroa is a low level confidant of Cortez, someone he trusts enough to oversee some key U.S. drug distribution agreements. Figueroa’s the one that caught our attention.”
“Go on,” DeSantos said as he peered out the window, keeping an eye on where Mann was headed.
“NTF has had a wiretap on his cell and we know he’s arranged to pick up a particularly large load of coke, and
