doubt. But later. We’ve got a man out there depending on us and some really bad assholes ripe for arrest. That’s where our energies need to be focused. There’s no time to adequately evaluate this—and I don’t even have the authority to put you on administrative leave. But I do have the perfect assignment for you. I want you to rendezvous with SWAT and work out of their command post. I’ll radio the tactical commander and clear it.”
Through a clenched jaw, Turino said, “Yes sir.”
Yardley turned to Vail and said, “Even though this is a DEA task force, I’ve got no one who’s as fully briefed on all aspects of this operation as you are. I’m placing you in charge. Now get the hell out of here and find Hernandez.”
“Yes sir.” Vail stole a look at Gifford. He was uncommonly quiet. More than concerned, she decided. Worried. Not worried because she was now running the task force, but worried like a father who’s dealing with a son who’s gotten himself into a heap of trouble. Vail gave him a slight nod of assurance, then led her team back toward the Huey.
80
Willie Quintero drove around the strip, up and down side streets and back again to Las Vegas Boulevard, watching for a tail. They were clean, best he and Sandiego Ortega could determine in the thick traffic and frequent red lights that choked one of the busiest sections of the strip.
Robby asked for the cuffs to be removed, a request that Quintero rejected. “Once we get inside, Mr. Villarreal will tell us how he wants us to handle you. Till then, keep your fucking mouth shut. You’ve got us to thank for your life, and I wanna hear some grat-titude,
“Thank you,” Robby said. “I appreciate what you did for me.”
“Damn straight. Now keep your head down until we’re ready to get out.”
Following another trip through the Vegas streets, Quintero guided the car into an underground garage. There they waited, Robby still scrunched into the rear seat, until Quintero received a phone call. He listened, then said, in Spanish, “Yes, boss.” He hung up, then told Diego they were to take Robby up to the condo.
After draping a jacket across his handcuffed wrists, they led Robby through the parking lot, up the stairs, across a larger area, then into an elevator bay. The ride up was long and, according to the LCD readout, fifty-seven stories.
Undernourished—and abused—for several days, Robby felt unsteady and had to lean against the elevator wall to keep from falling over. The car finally drew to a stop and the doors slid apart. Quintero gave him a shove, and Robby tripped forward. Diego tightened his grip on Robby’s arm and ushered him into Alejandro Villarreal’s ultramodern condo.
“Steady,
“That’d be good,” Robby said, finding it difficult to summon the energy to maintain an erect posture.
Inside, the condo’s clean, edgy lines were augmented by Zebrawood cabinets, teak doors, limestone vanities, and white oak flooring. Ahead of them, expansive picture windows dominated the wall. Bright casino and hotel lights sparkled starkly in black repose against the nightscape below.
In front of the window sat a man in a dark, broad-pinstripe suit. Tan and trim, he possessed the constitution of a wealthy individual whose vast amounts of money were well spent. He rose from the soft, cream-colored leather chair and sauntered up to Robby. “So this is the man all the fuss is being made over.” Villarreal pursed his lips, then nodded. He studied Robby’s face, no doubt taking in the abrasions and bruises, in various stages of healing, and the fresh slice inflicted by Ernesto Escobar. “I am Alejandro Villarreal,” he said with some flair. “I am responsible for saving your life. You know that, don’t you?”
Robby looked down at the man. “I do, sir. Thank you.”
He raised a hand and smiled out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t thank me yet, Mr. Hernandez. Don’t thank me yet.”
A bowl of mixed nuts sat on a coffee table to Diego’s right. “May I, sir?” Diego asked, wiggling an index finger at the food.
“Yes, of course. Make our guest at home.”
Diego retrieved the dish and held it in front of Robby, who grabbed a fist full of nuts and shoved them into his mouth as a caveman would devour a fresh piece of meat.
Villarreal’s phone rang. He pulled a sleek Sanyo from his pocket and flipped it open with a flick of his thumb. “Yes.” He listened a moment, then said, “I see. No, no, thank you.” Another pause. “I will consider.”
Villarreal snapped the lid closed with one hand and looked up at Robby. “You see, Mr. Hernandez, I am a businessman. That is what I do. It so happens my product is cocaine, methamphetamine, marijuana, heroin. A little Fentanyl thrown in to round out the product mix. Demand is strong, so I try to keep the supply flowing.” He spread his arms. “And it makes for a very, very comfortable lifestyle. As you can see.” He rotated his torso, taking in the decor of the interior.
Robby, more interested in generating needed energy and strength, threw another handful of nuts into his mouth.
“I’ve been made an offer,” Villarreal said. He turned and walked toward the picture windows. Looking at the lights of Las Vegas below, he appeared to be lost in thought.
Robby shared a look with Diego.
“What kind of offer?” Quintero asked.
Villarreal turned slowly. “A very good one, Willie. Snatching Mr. Hernandez has opened up an opportunity I hadn’t considered.” His eyes narrowed. “That call was from Carlos Cortez. It seems he wants our guest back. And he has made a lucrative offer of exchange. He’s sent men over to formalize the agreement.”
He, or Diego, had to do something—but what? They didn’t have much time, he knew that. These were his best odds since he’d been kidnapped. An armed foe to his left, an armed ally to his right. Was Villarreal packing? Probably—though his slim-fitting suit seemed to indicate otherwise.
Diego stepped forward. “With all due respect, sir. We grabbed Hernandez because we know what Cortez is going to do. And the heat his murder would bring would destroy our busin—”
“Yes, yes. But Mr. Cortez is offering us exclusive rights to a rather large territory. And he’s proposing a new supply chain for us, through one of his key suppliers in Colombia, which will enable us to increase our kilos moved per month by a third.”
Diego rubbed at his forehead. “Sir. None of that matters if the Feds shut us down.”
Villarreal turned back to the windows, his face reflected in the dark glass. “For how long can they do that? Seriously, now, Diego. A month? Two months? Three? The cost will be enormous in a down economy, their government deficits at record levels.” He shook his head. “I should have thought this through better.” He cocked his head. “Then again, it seems to have worked out just fine. Because if we hadn’t taken Mr. Hernandez here, this offer wouldn’t be on the table right now.”
Diego’s right hand reached behind his back—no doubt for his pistol. But if Robby saw it, Quintero could see it too, if he was looking. Diego slipped out a Beretta and had cleared his waist band when Robby leaned left and buried his shoulder into Quintero’s side, slamming both of them into the adjacent wall.
A gunshot rang out.
Robby scuffled with Quintero but in the periphery of his vision, he saw his friend drop to the floor.
“Diego!”
Quintero yanked his Smith & Wesson free and aimed it at the doorway—his immediate threat—but another blast from that direction took care of any danger Quintero posed.
Robby felt Quintero slump against the wall but did not celebrate. Standing fifteen feet away, holding a hulking chrome .45, was a person Robby never expected to see again—hoped never to see again.
Ernesto “Grunge” Escobar.
Escobar stepped across the threshold. “You are lucky I came when I did,” he said to Villarreal. “Looked to me like your own man here was about to shoot you.” With his cannon aimed at Robby, he stepped toward Diego and
