guy, worked with him. When we found out what happened to Kiki, it killed me, affected me deeper than I could ever admit. I wanted to track down those fuckers and do to them what they did to him.
“It’s what drove me to request assignment on Velocity. I wanna see these bastards taken down. Badly. If there’s one thing I have left to accomplish in my career, it’s bringing ’em to their knees. Devastate their ability to bring drugs into our country.”
“If Camarena affected you so deeply,” Mann said, “you’d be busting your ass to find Hernandez.”
Turino shook his head. “Not at the expense of blowing a years-long operation that’ll save hundreds—shit,
“Is there anything you’ve kept from us,” Vail asked, “that we should know?”
Turino rolled his eyes. “You people’ve been a goddamn handful. Trying to keep you in check has been damn near impossible. At this point, I think you know everything I know. In the grand scheme of things, I don’t think I’ve slowed you down that much.”
“When seconds count, ‘that much’ may’ve been
“That one you can’t pin on me.”
DeSantos released his hold and pushed Turino away. “Lie down. On your stomach.”
Turino twisted around and faced DeSantos, whose Desert Eagle was trained at Turino’s center mass. “Why?”
“Because I want to talk with my colleagues and I wanna be sure you’re not going to do something stupid.”
Turino complied with DeSantos’s request. DeSantos patted him down and removed a smaller Glock that was tucked into Turino’s ankle holster. He then backed away and huddled with Vail, Dixon, and Mann.
“All due respect to Karen,” Mann said, “Turino’s not wrong. I wanna get Hernandez back, you know that. But I think we have to take a breath and look at this objectively. One life against hundreds, if not more. A serious blow to Mexico’s most violent cartel. Shutting down their money laundering operations. All those drugs and weapons off the streets.” He scraped at his forehead with the prosthesis. “I can’t fault the guy. In a way, I respect him. It took balls to do what he did.”
DeSantos nodded at Dixon. “Roxxann?”
Dixon puffed her cheeks and blew a mouthful of air through her lips. “Tough call. I see your logic, but seems like the guy’s been acting on his own. I can’t imagine the DEA ordering one of its agents to purposely screw us over.”
“They wouldn’t,” Mann said. “Every DEA agent I’ve ever worked with is a class act. Professional. Committed. But don’t be so quick to judge the man. We got caught up in the Crush Killer case and we cut corners. Lots of ’em. We did shit we shouldn’t have done. Right?” He got a nod from Dixon and a conciliatory dip of the chin from Vail. “When you’re dealing with a case like that, especially a huge one like Velocity, it’s hard not to let emotions get the best of you. We all know that’s true.”
They turned to Vail. She shoved her hands into the pockets of Robby’s leather jacket. “I can’t be one to judge him. I’m certainly no angel. The past couple weeks I’ve . . . crossed the line plenty of times. Too many times.”
DeSantos said, “So, what do we do with him?”
“Let’s back up a second.” Dixon ran her hands through her hair. “What if he’s got a broad mandate to run the task force as he sees fit? Bottom line, we’re pissed because he’s looking at the big picture and we’re focused on getting Robby home safe. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Is there a right or wrong here?”
They were silent as they chewed on that.
“So what are our options?” Mann said. “We leave him here or we take him with us.”
Vail said, “Trust is everything. Way I see it, question is, Can we trust him?”
“Our goals are no longer conflicting,” Dixon said. “It’s a moot point.” Vail pulled up the collar on Robby’s jacket. “Trust is never a moot point, Roxx.”
“Who tipped you off?” Mann asked DeSantos.
He held up his phone. “Text.”
“From?”
DeSantos rotated his body, checking out the area. Lowering his voice, he said, “Turino admitted it. Source is irrelevant.”
Vail figured it had to be Sammy. But it no longer mattered.
“If it helps any,” DeSantos said, “we all understand one another now. And I think we woke him up.”
“I’d say grinding your Desert Eagle into his ear definitely got his attention,” Dixon said.
Mann cracked a smile. “I kinda liked that. Old-school stuff. Settle it out in the field.”
“Fine,” Vail said. “We handle this in-house. But I’m done working with him, not until I can be sure we can trust him. If shit goes down and he has to choose between Robby and Velocity . . . ” She shrugged. “We can’t take that chance. I can’t take that chance.” She looked around and everyone indicated agreement.
DeSantos checked his watch. “Time to rock and roll.”
They released Turino, returned his side arms, and then headed back to the helicopter as the chief pulled up. They handed over custody of Arturo Figueroa and told Thomson to expect a visit from Agent Jordan.
Then, with DeSantos piloting the Huey, they went skids up and disappeared into the black San Diego sky.
PART 4
CRASH AND BURN
Hector DeSantos peered out the window, then made an adjustment with the cyclic and collective controls and guided the helicopter into a gentle descent toward the Las Vegas countryside. He hovered fifty feet above his target, then slowly dropped onto the center of a grassy knoll. The helipad was encircled by a decomposed granite path, bordered by wooden benches and decorative lamps.
The Green Valley Ranch Station Casino was a resort in every sense—but it also served law enforcement as a staging area when the need arose. The helipad, composed of well-tended and close-cropped putting green grass, sat at the far end of the complex’s recreation quad.
Upon liftoff from Clover Creek, Vail had explained the task force’s decision to Turino. Turino absorbed her comments without reply, but his face conveyed a look she was unable to read—other than that it wasn’t full of warm fuzzies.
DeSantos powered down the Huey, then followed Vail, Dixon, Mann, and Turino as they met up with an individual who identified himself as DEA Special Agent Mark Clar. The agent ushered them away from the helipad, briskly walking past a hand-laid rock retaining wall and down a tan gravel path.
After passing the spa building on the right, Vail looked ahead—and all around them in a semicircle, for that matter—and took in the splendor of the Spanish tiled six-story resort, highlighted by strategic and dramatic lighting.
To her left, a security booth was manned by a heavyset guard dressed in a lime green shirt and black pants. He nodded as they passed, then spoke into his handheld radio.
The group ran up the two flights of stairs and entered the hotel. They followed Clar to a generous central hallway with a black and gold lighted sign suspended from the ceiling that directed guests to their desired conference room. They passed El Viento, La Cascada, and La Sirena, then stopped beside a room with a wood- framed sign that read “La Luna.” Below the name, an embedded LCD screen displayed images of the room and of the Green Valley Ranch property.
Clar pulled open the right wooden door and motioned them inside.
