Turino banked hard right and upward, moving away from the Land Rover as it splashed against the water and stopped abruptly, as if caught in a giant spider web.
“He’s down!” Turino said.
Vail phoned DeSantos. “Target’s in the water. Repeat. Target is in the water. We’re circling back to get a light on him.”
Turino and Vail removed their NVGs. Turino switched on the Huey’s spotlight and trained it on the Land Rover. Vail moved it around in a sweeping left to right manner, attempting to locate the vehicle’s occupant.
“There,” Turino said, pointing at a spot below. “Swimming back toward shore.”
“Got him.” Vail angled the light onto his position. The man was splashing desperately toward the lake’s edge. As soon as the area around him became illuminated, he stopped and looked skyward, the downdraft of the rotors flapping his hair and rippling the water’s surface.
Vail pulled her BlackBerry back to her face and shoved it beneath the earpiece of her headset. “Your game now. When you’ve got him in custody, we’ll join you on the ground.”
DESANTOS WAS FIRST to make it to the lake’s edge. He drew down on his target and waited for the man to approach. DeSantos could’ve jumped in after the suspect, but he didn’t have a change of clothes, and he reasoned that due to the temperature of the water, the man had no choice but to return to shore.
And a moment later, that’s exactly what happened. A thin man with what appeared to be a gold front tooth slogged onto the rock-strewn edge, then placed his hands behind his head.
DeSantos knew that having him provide answers might be a more difficult task. “Search him,” he said to Dixon, who was closest. While DeSantos covered her, Dixon holstered her pistol, then moved to the prisoner and shoved him facedown on the ground. She pulled a long switchblade from his back pocket, a cell phone, and ID that DeSantos was sure would turn out to be bogus.
As Mann stood guard, watching the area behind them, Dixon read the suspect his rights, then placed a set of flex cuffs around his wrists.
Fifty yards to the east, Turino set the Huey down. Vail deplaned and ran toward the knot of task force teammates.
Dixon yanked the prisoner to his feet and DeSantos stepped up to him, remaining far enough away that the man would not be able to land a kick.
“You speak English?” DeSantos asked.
“Yeah,” the man said.
“Your name?”
The suspect turned and looked off into the darkness. Vail tried to recall the photo she had taken from Cortez’s house, but whether or not it was the stress of the moment—of the past few weeks—she couldn’t retrieve the image from the recesses of her memory. She was not sure if this man was Arturo Figueroa.
“Silent treatment ain’t gonna work with us,” DeSantos said. “Believe me, you don’t want to know what I do for a living.”
The man lifted his face and turned it toward DeSantos. “And you don’t want to know what I do for a living.”
“We already know,” Vail said, Robby’s jacket flapping in the breeze. She walked past DeSantos and stopped a foot from the man’s face. “And I’m in no fucking mood to play games. You can either cooperate and answer a few simple questions, or we push you back into that water and hold your head down till your lungs fill up. We cut your cuffs and let you sink. No one would question it. You drove into the water and drowned. And in case you didn’t notice, it’s pitch black and we’re in the middle of fucking nowhere. You see any witnesses? Because I sure don’t.” Vail tilted her head back and observed. The man tensed his brow and narrowed his eyes.
The wind whipped up, sending a shiver shuddering through her body. She gathered the jacket tighter around her torso. “I get it,” she said. “You don’t believe me. Federal agents don’t kill innocent suspects. Well, you got that right, asshole. But you’re not an innocent suspect. And I need the answers
The man did not respond.
“All right, fine. We don’t have time for this shit. Drown him,” she said, then turned to walk away. Dixon and DeSantos each grabbed an arm and dragged him backward. He fought them, kicking his legs and twisting his torso.
But as they approached the water’s edge, he yelled, “Arturo. Arturo Figueroa.”
DeSantos and Dixon stopped but maintained their hold on either side.
Vail walked up to him. “Very good. I’ve got a few other questions, Arturo. Answer, and we may let you go. If you don’t answer, I think you know what’ll happen.” She waited a beat, then said, “We’re looking for a federal agent by the name of Hernandez. He was running an undercover op against your cartel. We know his cover was blown and we know you brought him to San Diego.”
“Then you know a lot,” Figueroa said.
Vail waited, but he offered nothing further. “You’re pushing me, Arturo, and I’ve reached my end. Last chance. Where’s Hernandez?”
Figueroa struggled against DeSantos and Dixon. When he apparently realized his efforts were futile, he said, “I don’t know. He was being held at a house with smuggled illegals near Palm and the 805. Someone came and busted him out a little while ago.”
“Who? Who busted him out?” Figueroa set his jaw. “I don’t know. Information like that isn’t shared. We work in groups, so one doesn’t know what the other’s doing.”
“Yeah, but you’ve got the boss’s ear. We know that.”
“I’m telling you, I haven’t spoken to Carlos. I don’t know who took him.”
“If you had to guess,” Vail said. “Who?”
Figueroa glanced around, shuffled his feet. Licked his lips. Clearly uncomfortable. “We had some discussions with a guy repping Alejandro Villarreal. Know who that is?”
“Yeah,” Turino said. For his task force colleagues, he said, “Villarreal runs a rival cartel. Smaller—much, much smaller than Cortez. But they make plenty of noise—and money—in their own right.” To Figueroa, Turino said, “What kind of discussions did Villarreal’s man have with Cortez?”
“I wasn’t there. I only know what my friend told me.”
“Who’s your friend?” Vail asked.
Figueroa again wind-milled his arms against the grip of DeSantos and Dixon. It was a fruitless effort that nevertheless reminded them to remain attentive.
“Your friend, Arturo. We want a name,” Vail said.
“Grunge. Ernesto Escobar.”
Turino stepped forward. “Cortez’s right-hand man? He’s your buddy?”
DeSantos knew what Turino was thinking: Arturo Figueroa was obviously an important catch, but possibly a bigger fish than they had anticipated. If he was close to Cortez’s second in command, regardless of their compartmentalized structure, he might hold key information regarding the cartel’s inner workings.
With his free hand, DeSantos pulled his phone and typed a short message to Jack Jordan telling him they had Figueroa in custody—and asking him to get Thomson over here with some of his men as soon as possible.
“So what did Escobar tell you about these discussions with Villarreal’s rep?” Vail asked.
“That’s it,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t rat on my friends.”
“You haven’t ratted on your friends,” DeSantos said. “Only on Villarreal. Unless Villarreal is one of your friends.”
“I’d like to see Villarreal rot in hell.”
“Help us out, and maybe that’ll happen.”
Figueroa’s face contorted into a crooked smile. “We’ll take care of it. Our own way. We don’t need your help.
“
Figueroa tightened his jaw. “Big mistake.”
